


The Measure of a Soul

by Alianirlian



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alianirlian/pseuds/Alianirlian
Summary: A wandering mage stops for lunch in an inn and is almost mistaken for a witcher. Soon enough, the real witcher and his companion enter. Since Geralt and Jaskier find themselves short a sorcerer, Finsternis decides to join them for an adventure.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. The Merits of Boredom

_I go where the paths of magic lead me, with no particular purpose or goal in mind…_

Still, the mage wondered, why here? This place seemed peaceful enough, though he immediately conceded that looks could – and probably would – be deceiving. For now, though, he detected no immediate threats.

From what he'd seen thus far, on a techn ology-magic scale this place heavily favoured the latter. Though magic wasn't as commonplace here as it once had been, and in time would be, in the world where he came from, there were mages here, and spells. And witches, though why female mages were called such was a distinction which escaped him. And there was a third breed of magic users, he'd heard, people called witchers, but information about them was hard to come by.

He had spotted the lonely house at the crossroads from quite a distance away. A prime location for an inn. When he came closer that assessment turned out to be correct. Two horses were tied to the hitching post in front of the building, he could hear more animals from the stables in the back. A sign depicting an apple run through a sword hung above the door, swaying gently in the breeze. The door itself was open.

As he stepped through the doorway, he felt a slight twinge from his mage sense. Not enough to put him on alert, to indicate acute danger, but enough to heighten his awareness. _Tell me something I didn't know,_ he thought wryly.

Inside it was pleasantly cool. Only a few tables were filled, behind the bar a gangly young man stood drying plates and glasses with a bored face. He placed the towel down as Finsternis limped across the room towards him. "Can I help you?" His voice had that awkward range where it was just beginning to break.

Finsternis pushed his hood back. "Lunch and something to drink, please."

The young man flinched and only seemed to hold himself from dashing away by sheer force of will. "Ah… um… We have wine or beer or spring water… or milk," he stammered. The last words came out a squeak.

The mage raised an eyebrow. He was used to people being wary at his appearance, but that happened mostly in his own world, where mages were rare these days. Then again, maybe mages had a similar reputation here. "Wine will be fine." 

"Yes… yes… Just pick a spot and I'll bring it over."

Finsternis gave a grave nod. "Thank you." He turned around and saw that everyone in the room was staring at him. The pulse of mage sense came back, stronger. Ignoring the stares, he headed towards a table near the wall and sat down. It was an old habit, a place he selected not because he wanted to have a wall in his back, but because it meant that people were less likely to bump into him and hurt his leg. Besides, it also was also handy to lean his staff against the wall.

People now stopped staring, but his mage sense did allow Finsternis to hear the whispered conversation from the other side of the common room. "Do you think that's him?"

"Well, he was supposed to arrive today. And they say he has white hair, so…"

"Didn't know he walked with a limp, though. And I had expected him to be a bit more… I dunno…"

"Maybe he got injured? It happens even to witchers, I've heard."

Ah. It wasn't the mage thing, then. He felt himself relax, though he remained alert.

The young man delivered lunch: a plate with bread, butter and oil, and cheese, some slices of cold meat, and a salad, with a carafe of light wine and a glass. He put it on the table as quickly as possible and dashed back behind the safety of the bar.

Just as Finsternis took the first sip, someone entered: a man with a dark cap of hair, a wide grin on his expressive face and a lute in his hand. "Greetings, all!" he said in a resonant voice – and saw Finsternis and fell silent.

A deeper voice, belonging to someone still outside, said sardonically: "Cat got your tongue, Jaskier? Or is one of your former lovers inside?"

"Uhh… Geralt? You never told me you have a twin?" the man addressed as Jaskier said, still staring at Finsternis. The mage lowered his glass. Things were about to become interesting.

"I don't," the deep voice said. A silhouette darkened the opening for a moment before stepping in. The man who entered was impressive, both in build as in the presence he commanded. He looked around, scanning the room in an instant, and his eyes briefly halted when he regarded the mage. "Hm."

"So he's not, like, a brother of yours? Cousin, maybe? Distant relative? A colleague, maybe?"

The man called Geralt growled: "Jaskier, shut up."

"Okay, sure, shutting up already, whatever you say. I'm going to check him out, though. Want to come?"

The other shrugged. "Do what you must. My business is not with him." He turned around brusquely and headed to the other side of the inn, where the whisperers were seated. They turned out to be a man and a woman, nearing middle age, and they looked at the new arrival with awe.

Fascinating. It was easy to see why Jaskier would think why the man who had just entered and he himself might be related. Different physique, obviously, but other than that the similarities were striking. They both had long, white hair worn in a low tail, a rather pale face which looked far younger than the hair would indicate, and light eyes. The fact that both of them dressed in black only enhanced the similarities.

"Mind if I join you? Surely not." Without waiting for an answer, Jaskier grabbed a chair, turned it backwards and sat down, resting his arms on the chair's back. One of his hands grabbed a piece of bread and dipped it in oil. "I'm sure you know who I am: Jaskier, bard of great renown. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. You look like a man with many a story to tell."

Finsternis raised an eyebrow. "You travel with a witcher, if I'm correct, and you're looking for more stories still?"

"Always. I live and breathe stories. But am I correct in that you recognise my companion but not me? I'm hurt!" And indeed, Jaskier looked shocked – except for his eyes, which continued to sparkle merrily.

"As a matter of fact, no," Finsternis replied. "I only heard about him a few minutes before you arrived."

"Hmm," Jaskier said, in a passable imitation of his companion. "Yet you look remarkably like him. You don't happen to be a witcher yourself, by any chance?"

"Not knowing precisely what a witcher is, I think it's safe to say I'm not," Finsternis replied dryly. "I'm a mage."

"Really? That is fascinating!" Jaskier bent forward and picked up another piece of bread. The first one had disappeared somewhere in between the flood of words. "May I enquire as to your name, good sir?"

Finsternis raised an eyebrow. Few people had ever called him 'good sir'. "Finsternis."

"Thank you!" Jaskier bowed, which looked strangely elegant even when seated. "I already told you mine, of course. My sturdy companion is called Geralt of Rivia." On the other side of the room, the witcher didn't look up, but from the slight stiffening of his back Finsternis could tell he had heard Jaskier introducing him. Good hearing, or a version of mage sense? Maybe both.

Meanwhile Jaskier was still talking. "So what brings you here to this place?"

Finsternis indicated his plate. "Lunch."

"That's it?" Jaskier sounded almost offended, which didn't stop him from picking up a slice of meat and folding it. "No great adventures? No grandiose plans? No historical works of magic you're planning to undertake?"

The mage shook his head. "Just lunch, I'm afraid."

"Ah well, that's a pity. But who knows what fate will toss upon your path, eh?" Jaskier grinned again. The man had that undaunting optimism which characterised many of his profession. He reminded Finsternis of Nar: an old companion who had taken him under his wing during a very dark time of his life.

Finsternis pushed that thought away. Nar wasn't here. He was, and this ebullient bard was still staring at him expectantly. "Nothing, I hope," he replied.

The startled look on Jaskier's face was real, this time. "You wish for nothing? How… how boring!"

"Boredom sounds lovely," Finsternis said dryly, "Having experienced so little of it, I would like to explore its merits at great length."

The laugh came back on the bard's face. "Ah! I knew you must have stories to tell-"

"Jaskier!" the deep voice cut effortlessly through the inn. "Make yourself ready."

"But- I haven't even had lunch yet!" The man rose and picked up a piece of cheese in the same motion. "Excuse me for a moment, please."

Finsternis watched him go with wry amusement. In between all his chatter Jaskier had polished off half his lunch. Not that he minded, he would never have been able to finish everything by himself. He leaned back in his chair, took a few more sips and listened to the conversation on the other side of the inn.

"So, where are we going?"

"Birgingen."

The name, of course, meant nothing to the mage. Not to Jaskier, either, it appeared. "Which is where?"

"Near Tir Tochair."

Jaskier shrugged. "Great. And what is it that we're supposed to do there?"

With a twitch of his eyebrows, the witcher quite eloquently indicated what he thought of this 'we'. "Later."

"How mysterious! I love mysteries. So, ah…" Jaskier looked at the small group gathered at the table. "This is the party?"

For the first time, one of the others seated at the table piped up. "Almost. All we need is a sorcerer, then we're complete."

"Oho!" Jaskiers eyes began to glim. "Are you going to contact her, Geralt?"

The witcher glared down at his companion. "No."

"Oh. Right." Jaskier looked down, but true to his nature, that never stopped him. "I have an excellent solution."

Finsternis sighed to himself. _And here we go._

"You won't believe it," Jaskier prattled on, "but by an amazing coincidence, my new friend over there is a mage. One without any other short term goals than eating his lunch." He looked down with fake modesty. "I helped. So, he's free to come along."

"Is he now?" Geralt turned around and for the first time regarded the mage openly. Finsternis felt the weight of that gaze, and more. The man was probing him, in a manner not unlike his own mage sense. Finsternis raised his eyebrow and allowed the man to scan him, though he did use his own sense to touch the man's mind in turn. Nothing hostile, just a friendly signal: _You have been seen._

The witcher crossed the length of the inn with a few large strides. He didn't bother to sit down on the chair Jaskier had so recently vacated. "Mage," he said without preamble.

Finsternis gave a slight nod. "Witcher," he replied, blandly.

"What brings you here?"

"As your hungry friend noted, lunch."

"Hm," the witcher grunted. Then, after Finsternis made no effort to fill the silence, he resumed: "Curious. I know several sorcerers and wizards. I have never heard of you."

Finsternis smiled his brief smile. "I'm not from around here."

Again that piercing look and that probe, almost painfully intense now.

_No._ This time Finsternis stopped it. The witcher looked surprised, then thoughtful. Then he gave a grudging nod. "So I see. Let me ask you again: what brings you here?"

"To this inn, again, lunch. In a broader sense, I came here with no particular purpose. Yet I generally seem to travel to where I'm of use, in one way or the other."

"Then it seems you can be of use to us."

Finsternis sighed. "Though it would be nice to explore the merits of boredom, I think I'd quickly tire of it. Very well. I'll come."

Geralt's eyes narrowed. "You'll need a mount. Do you have one?"

"No."

"But you can ride?" the witcher insisted.

"That depends on the mount," Finsternis replied in that infallibly bland tone. "A horse, yes. A dragon, doubtful."

The witcher's mouth twisted. "Jaskier, see if they sell horses!" he called over his shoulder. Then he clapped Finsternis on the shoulder. "Pack your belongings. We'll leave presently."

Finsternis took his staff and rose. "Done."

A few minutes later they were all gathered outside the inn: the witcher and his horse, the two persons who had apparently hired him and their mounts, and Finsternis. Only Jaskier was missing.

"What's keeping him?" Geralt grumbled. "Either the innkeeper has horses for sale, or he doesn't. Either way, he should've been here by now. Unless he met a pretty-"

A yell came from the direction of the stables. "Geralt! A hand here would be really appreciated!"

The witcher sighed. "That rules out the pretty stable maid, I guess." He let go of the reins and patted his horse on the neck. "Stay, Roach," he murmured and set off with long strides.

Finsternis used the time to study the two others. An elderly man and woman, a couple perhaps. From their appearance he'd expected them to be shopkeepers or something like that, they certainly didn't seem the type to go out adventuring. They stood together nervously, looking with some trepidation at Geralt's giant steed.

The sound of hoofbeats, and the witcher reappeared, followed by a harried-looking Jaskier. The horse lead by Geralt was nearly the size of his own, but not nearly as docile. "Ill-tempered brute," Jaskier said with a scowl, dusting some hay from his clothes.

"She's certainly a high-spirited horse," Geralt grinned. "Did the innkeeper tell you how he came to own her?"

"No, but he's glad to be rid of it. He sold it to me with all the equipment for the price of six crowns. Which reminds me, you own me six crowns, wizard."

Finsternis suppressed a slight wince. "Mage, if you please. I hope you'll accept the equivalent in gold, since I lack the local currency."

"As long as it isn't fool's gold, I'll accept it with pleasure. Here's your horse. I hope you're a good rider."

Finsternis took a few coins from his purse and handed them to Jaskier. Then he took over the reins, touched the horse with his other hand, and reached out with his mind, sending out calming, soothing thoughts.

The contact was immediate. The horse calmed down, though she still looked at Finsternis with wide, wild eyes. And in a series of images, flashes, Finsternis saw what had happened to her last owner.

A war horse, a rider who was an officer or a knight. There had been a battle, or an altercation, and the rider had been injured. He had spurred the horse on towards the nearest settlement and they had ended up here. The rider had been brought inside and never came out. The horse had been here ever since, waiting. She had scared away anyone who wasn't her owner. Until this strange man came, and fetched her bridle and saddle, and she had allowed him to saddle her. Was she finally needed again? 

Finsternis scratched her behind one ear. _Yes,_ he said without talking. _Yes, you're needed. But I'm afraid your owner is gone. Gone like so many other soldiers, so many friends. But I have need of you. Will you allow me?_

The horse nickered and placed her head in his neck. Finsternis smiled and patted her neck. "You'll need a name," he murmured as he limped around the horse, checking and tightening the straps of her gear where needed.

"I still think 'Brute' is a great name." Jaskier didn't have a mount of his own, Finsternis now saw, he rode double with Geralt.

"Nah. She's a good girl. I think we're going to be friends, don't you?" Finsternis adjusted the height of the stirrup and planted his staff in the sand. Then, with a clumsy but effective hop, he hoisted himself into the saddle.


	2. Of Gods and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mage Finsternis shares more about where he comes from and slowly gets to know his companions better. He has a strange dream. The following morning, he and Geralt have a heart to heart.

It felt good to ride again after so long. And this horse was like a dream: sharp, attentive, sensitive and temperamental. "Dream, I think that's a great name for you."

"Nightmare is more like it," Jaskier commented. "Say, Geralt, are you finally going to tell us what the mission is?"

"I'll leave that to our new friends." Geralt indicated the two riding next to him. "First, I think some mutual introductions are in order. Would you like to begin?"

It was the man who spoke up, in a soft, slightly tremulous voice. He was obviously not a trained rider and the movements of the horse, combined with his tense posture caused those tiny vibrations. "My name's Wilford. My wife is Marthia. We live in the outskirts of Tir Tochair, in a small village called Birgingen. We… we have been asked to… to bring the witcher and a sorcerer. People have need of you."

"Really?" Jaskier raised his eyebrows. "I thought you'd become rather picky in which cases you accepted, Geralt. What makes this one so special?"

The witcher made a curt gesture with his hand. "Wilford? Continue, please."

The man swallowed, nodded. This time, Finsternis knew, the tremor in his voice was caused by more than the way he rode. "The people who need you… they're not human."

"Oh? Then what are they?" Jaskier asked.

But the man shook his head. He was near tears. "Don't ask me more. It'll cost me- I can't answer. You will learn everything, by and by."

"Hm," the witcher grunted. "So, mage, what do you think of this?"

Finsternis looked up. "This is very scant information. Remember, I just got here. I don't know anything about the region, nor about the non-human races of this world. Maybe you can enlighten me."

"Not without unsettling these people even further, I believe," Geralt replied. "However, speaking in general terms, there are many other races who live here. Most have relocated to the remote areas, mountain ranges, deserts, and so on. Sometimes because of lost wars, sometimes because our way of living disagrees with theirs. Tir Tochair has been known to be the home of dwarves and gnomes, amongst other races."

"Hmm." The sound had slipped out before Finsternis noticed. He grimaced, Jaskier grinned. "Infectious, isn't it?"

"Quite," Finsternis said dryly. "Anyway. I will share what I think when I have actual thoughts regarding the situation." He added, very quietly: "They appear to be very intimidated by you, and maybe to a lesser extent by me. Once we stop for the night, best let Jaskier talk to them, see if he can ease their tongues." He spoke so softly that he was sure a normal human wouldn't be able to hear.

He wasn't disappointed to see the witcher give a very slight nod and hear him reply in an equally soft voice: "It's worth a try."

"What was that you're saying, Geralt? I didn't catch it," Jaskier asked.

"Nothing. I was just scraping my throat."

The afternoon passed uneventfully. It was a lovely day for travelling, sunny but not too hot. The road passed through rolling hills and strands of trees, roughly following a fast-flowing stream. Occasionally they passed other travellers. Everyone they passed hurried past with furtive glances, Finsternis was amused to note. He supposed they made quite the spectacle: the formidable witcher riding side by side with which seemed like a more slender version of himself, accompanied by the bard in his bright clothes, and flanked by two far more normal-looking travellers who were practically invisible in contrast.

Like Finsternis, Geralt was mostly silent, but Jaskier far and wide made up for that. He kept up an endless stream of stories, anecdotes and songs. Finsternis listened with great attention: other than finding a library and spending hours reading, this was the quickest way of getting to know this world and the various people in it. In his mind he began to construct a map, not precisely of geographical locations but of different categories: cities, people of note, species, magic, gods, monsters…

The stream of words came to a sudden halt when Jaskier said: "I'm getting parched from all this talking. It's someone else's turn now." He unslung a flask from his hip and took a sip, then turned to Finsternis. "What about you?"

"Your thirst for stories again?" Finsternis asked, startled out of his reverie. 

"At this moment, I thirst for all things: stories and a good wine. Alas, I seem to have only water." Jaskier held the flask up. "Would you like to have some?"

Finsternis shook his head. "No, thank you. As for stories, would you believe I am a very bland person?"

Jaskier handed his flask to Wilford and turned back with a grin. "Absolutely not."

"Thought as much," Finsternis said with a small sigh. "Very well. What do you wish to know?"

"Oh," Jaskier said with gleaming eyes. "Everything. Where you come from, what brings you here…

"What you did for your summer holidays," Finsternis murmured.

"What?" The mage wasn't sure if Jaskier sounded puzzled because he was interrupted or because of what Finsternis actually said. He was quite sure he saw Geralt's mouth twitch, though.

"Something local. Never mind. Do continue."

Jaskier looked sour but continued. "Alright. A short question, then. How did you hurt your leg?"

Even though it had been years ago, talking about it hadn't become much easier since the first time someone had asked him that question. Finsternis had become more deft in giving curt answers since then, though. "In a fight with another mage." His voice was frosty.

Jaskier, of course, was not deterred. He whistled. "That must've been some fight. So, what happened to your opponent?"

Staring directly at the troubadour, Finsternis replied coldly: "He died. But not by my hand."

"I recognise that tone." Jaskier's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You two have a lot in common, you know that? No, of course not, you've only just met. But I recognise that tone. Something really bad happened there, didn't it? Not just a heated spat between two mages, or a falling out. What was it?"

But Finsternis shook his head, suddenly weary beyond words. "I will tell you later. This evening. But not now."

Jaskier nodded gravely. "I will wait."

They camped under the stars, that evening. A campfire burned low, the sounds of the fire mingled with the murmur of water from the brook and the soft wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Wilford and Marthia sat close together near the fire, Geralt was stretched out on the ground. Jaskier sat cross-legged, strumming his lute softly. Finsternis leaned against a tree and stared into the fire. Any moment now Jaskier would ask-

"You promised to continue the story." He kept playing soft chords. They blended with the sounds around them and moulded them into a melody.

"So I did." Finsternis turned his gaze away from the fire. "I've heard people swear by the gods. So you believe in gods, then? Plural, I take it. Various temples and such?"

"I wouldn't necessarily say that I myself believe in them," Jaskier said. "But we do have temples, priests, priestesses, devotees. You mean you don't?"

"We banished our gods from our world a long time ago. But though banishing robbed them of their powers, it didn't destroy them. They have been out there since then, waiting. Looking for a way in."

Jaskier's eyes opened wide. The witcher sat up and regarded Finsternis with a speculative look. "Continue."

"Where I come from, there were two schools of magic, two poles. They kept each other balanced, a balance which endured for a long time. Until one man upset the balance and allowed it to shift. Through his actions, nearly all mages vanished. In the end there were only two left, one on each pole. And my counterpart planned to break the ties between them, absorb all magic so that he could be… I don't know. All-powerful? Shape all magic into his liking? My mind has never been able to comprehend his reasoning. Maybe he was more than half insane for even trying it. For to achieve his goal he had done one thing: he had opened himself to the gods, made himself their tool."

He shivered, though the night wasn't cold. This was a different cold, coming from within. Even after all these years, the memory still hurt. "To make a long story short, it had been mages who had banished the gods. It had been mages who kept them away. And now, one of the two mages left had opened himself to the gods. Had given his loyalty in exchange for access to magic.

"So, we fought. He injured me. Then, when he thought he had hold of all the remaining magic in the world, he let them in. And they used him, and rewarded his loyalty by destroying him." Finsternis took a deep breath. "And in that moment, before they could fully manifest, together with two others I sent them back again."

Wilford and Marthia sat listening with wide eyes, Geralt, on the other hand, had his half-closed and appeared to be drowsing. Jaskier had stopped strumming. At this point he couldn't stop himself and blurted: "Hang on. This really happened? On another world?"

"Yes."

Jaskier sighed. "That's amazing. Tell me about it. What is it like?"

Finsternis raised an eyebrow. "Hm? Not all that different from yours, I suppose. Your sky is a little lighter than mine, I think, and our sun might be a tad bigger. Your gravity is a bit higher than what I'm used to, which is one reason why I'm grateful for riding instead of walking. We don't have all the different races you mentioned in your stories."

"And you really fought your gods and lived to tell the tale?"

Finsternis shifted his gaze back to the fire and drew his cloak tighter around him. "I would have died there had I not been stopped. I wanted to, but I got sent back. So my brother died instead."

Now the witcher's eyes opened. "You got sent back?"

"Yes." Finsternis sighed. "Had I died, all the knowledge of magic in my world would've died with me. There would still be people with the talent, but nobody to train them. It would leave the world bare, unprotected against the gods. So I was denied. My brother… He would've made a great mage, had he lived."

"Who denied you death? Only gods can grant that power."

Finsternis smiled bleakly. "There is one greater power on my world, remember? Magic itself stopped me. Transformed me. Since then, I have been its servant. Which brings me to the question you originally wanted to know, Jaskier. What brought me to the inn was a desire to eat lunch. What brings me here, to this world, I don't know. I follow the paths of magic, I go where it leads me. And for some reason, it brought me here."

"Hmm," the witcher said. He looked from Finsternis to the couple, sitting together near the fire. "And you think that it is their mission which brings you here?"

"In all fairness, I have no idea. It could be. It could be just meeting you. It could be something else altogether. There is nothing prophetic about this, nothing I can point at and say 'Oh, this must be it'. Just a sense I get sometimes. It could well be this mission. But I don't know."

"Is there anything you wish to add to this?" Geralt suddenly turned to Marthia and Wilford. "Maybe something you didn't want to share before this tale?"

Marthia was silent as ever. Wilford shook his head. "No… no." Finsternis suddenly realised that the wide-eyed look he had taken for fascination earlier might well be something else entirely: fear.

"Well, that's a sad story to end the evening with," Jaskier said. "I'd much rather have a brighter one to end on before we go to sleep."

"My apologies," Finsternis said. "My well for brighter stories has run dry."

"Have songs been written about what happened that day?" Jaskier asked. "Stories? 'The Day The Gods Came Back And Were Denied'?"

"Yes," Finsternis said curtly. "I like none of them."

"Maybe I can compose one you like."

Finsternis took a small, silvery rectangle from one of the bags from his belt which, once unfolder, turned out to be a very thin blanket. He wrapped it around himself and shifted away from the tree. "I doubt it," he said, lied down and closed his eyes.

Dreams.

He wasn't surprised to find he was dreaming. In his dream he was flying, hovering over the landscape. It was still night. Far below him was the tiny campfire which formed the heart of their temporary camp. It glowed a dull red. He could see five forms stretched out around it, two close together, three separate. Two of those were lying in almost identical poses. It worried him faintly.

Was this a dream? Or an involuntary excorporeal excursion? He knew how to travel with his mind while leaving his body behind. And back when he first began to master the technique, it had happened on more than one occasion that he forgot to bring his body along. He looked around for the tell-tale blue/silver tether which connected his spirit-self to his body-self and couldn't find it. Dream, then.

"Yes, a dream, stranger to these lands, stranger to this world," a voice said. It was a woman's voice, warm and gentle.

"Have you come to threaten us? Have you come to threaten the gods?" another voice asked. This one belonged to a man, deep and resonant.

"It is not my nature to threaten unless a clear and present danger has already presented itself," he replied. "I do not fight unless there is a pressing need."

"So you're a man of honour then, a man of ethics?" That was the first voice again.

"A man of principle? A righteous man?" The second voice.

"I leave qualifications of my nature to others," Finsternis said. "I do what I feel must be done."

"By which measure, stranger in a strange land?" the first voice asked.

"By your morals, your ethics?" The second voice.

"Or by that which leads you, your so-called path of magic?"

Disembodied, he couldn't shake his head, but he felt the gesture was conveyed nonetheless. "Magic just leads me to places. It makes no judgement. So, by my ethics, then, I guess."

"You guess?" The first voice sounded faintly amused. "You would judge, and you do not know for certain?"

"Does anyone?" Finsternis countered. "Everyone judges. Everyone measures based on their own innate sets of values, what they think is right and proper, what is fair and what should be. In that I am no different than anyone."

"Ah." The second voice again. "Then in what way are you different from everyone else? What sets you apart from the rest?"

Finsternis wished he had an eyebrow he could raise. Again, he had the feeling that the gesture was seen, somehow. "Everything. My thoughts. My memories. My experiences. Even people who are identical in every aspect will start to differentiate from the moment they are born, maybe even before. Everyone is unique."

"In your world, your experience, perhaps," the first voice said. "What makes you so sure this is the case everywhere?"

Finsternis tilted a head he didn't have. "Conceded. I am extrapolating from my own observations. Thus far, I have not seen any humans who did not develop as individuals. But I have been told this world is shared between various races. Maybe it works different for them. Maybe there is a kind of… a shared mind or consciousness, which lessens the concept of individuality or makes it completely obsolete."

"Does this mean your judgement was hasty, then?" Now it was the second voice which seemed faintly amused, though there was a hint of something darker in that voice, too.

Again, he twitched a disembodied eyebrow. "I was not judging. You asked a question, I answered. There is no judgement implied in this. And even if there was-" an invisible smile flicked over a face which wasn't there, "as has been said before, whatever 'judgement' there is, is purely from my perspective. It is not infallible, not an absolute. And if it is not moved by facts, then it's not of any use at all."

There was a moment of silence, while far beneath him the still figures slept and dreamed, the fire burned lower and lower. Above him strange constellations danced their stately, nocturnal dance. Then both voices spoke, in unison: "Very well, Finsternis Zwartén, Finsternis of a different world. You may proceed. We will watch you with interest."

And with that the dream faded. He woke up in the pale light of dawn. Faint stars still shone, though the sky brightened rapidly. Everyone else was still fast asleep.

Finsternis crawled out of the blanket, grabbed his staff and rose. He walked slowly, quietly over the thick moss to the nearby brook, stripped until he was only wearing his briefs and stepped in the water.

The water was as cold as he thought and deeper than he expected. That first step would've spilled him face forward into the water if it hadn't been for a low-hanging branch and a timely grab. He lowered himself into the water in a more controlled manner, relishing the cold.

When he lifted his head and blinked the water from his eyes, he found the witcher sitting cross-legged on the shore, watching him.

Finsternis half waded, half stumbled to the shore and grabbed the overhanging branch to steady himself. "Good morning," he said. "Care to join me? The water is lovely."

"No, thank you." The witcher remained in the same position and stared at Finsternis with an expressionless face. He took it all in, the white hair, now dripping, the pale face, the blue tear-shaped stone dangling from its leather cord, the many scars. There were several on the mage's torso, one ring-shaped one on his right arm, an angry red one corkscrewing down the length of the crooked leg. "You intrigue me."

Finsternis picked up his staff and climbed out of the water. "How so?"

Geralt didn't look away. "I would not have taken you for a fighting man. Yet several of these are battle scars. Not all predate the one on your leg, either."

Finsternis smiled thinly. "I'm sure you've seen your share of scars." If only half of the stories Jaskier had told were true, the man had received quite a few himself. Still dripping, Finsternis took his clothes and began to walk back to the camp. Geralt rose gracefully and followed.

"Sufficient," Geralt replied curtly. He took two long steps and cut in front of the mage, drawing his sword.

Finsternis raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to fight me? Why?"

"I am not done with my questions."

"The polite way to do this is ask."

"I don't do polite," the witcher growled.

"That much is obvious. Very well." Finsternis sighed. He made a curt gesture and the water that still clung to him vanished. "I hope you don't mind that I get dressed while we talk? Thank you." He began to dress. 

"Hmm," the witcher growled, but he didn't lower his sword. "Not easily fazed, are you?"

Finsternis sat down to pull on his pants and looked up. "Should I be fazed? Should I be afraid of you? From what I heard yesterday, I believe you only kill monsters."

The sword's tip had followed the mage down and remained pointed at his throat. "What makes you think I don't consider you to be one, man from a different world?"

Finsternis shrugged. "Well, for one, the fact that you haven't killed me yet." He tugged at his pants and muttered under his breath when it got stuck.

"That is still on the table," Geralt said coldly. "What else?"

"You don't strike me as a man who stabs first and asks questions later." Finsternis looked up again. "Am I correct?"

The sword remained steady, but Finsternis had the feeling something changed in the man who held it. "Do you know the reputation witchers have, mage?" Geralt asked.

"Much like the reputation mages have where I come from, I believe," Finsternis said calmly. "People who are sometimes respected, sometimes barely tolerated, and always feared."

"Is that so?" The witcher raised his eyebrows. "And why do you think that is?"

Finsternis sighed and reached for his staff. Immediately the sword tip inched closer. "Don't worry," Finsternis said tiredly. "I don't need the staff to perform my magic. It is a focus point, not a necessary element. Besides, had I wished to defend myself, I would've done so a lot sooner. I just need it to get up again." He picked up the staff and slowly dragged himself to his feet. "Not fond of higher gravity worlds," he muttered and dusted off his pants. "Anyway, to answer your question. Because we stand out. Because we possess something, because we are something most people cannot comprehend. We are different. Even when we try to blend in, we can't." He thought back of his one attempt to do just that, to wander around without the black garments and symbols which marked him as a mage, without his staff. It had worked, just about, but only because a combination of other factors. And even so he stood out.

"Do you know what it takes to become a witcher?" Geralt asked softly. "Do you know the cost?"

"Since I only arrived yesterday, and none of Jaskier's tales detailed the process, obviously not," Finsternis replied. "But I can see part of the ordeal. It's grafted within you. I think you started young. I think few who began the training reached its completion. You have been forged like the blade you wear. Your kind is something of a hybrid, am I correct? Neither a fully trained fighter nor a fully trained mage, but combining traits from both."

Geralt grunted. "You are perceptive, mage. So, what do you think of such a 'hybrid'?"

"It is an interesting idea." Finsternis shifted his stance. "There have been warrior mages on my world in the past, though never many. I suppose we are fortunate that there are less menaces on mine… at least those who can be chased away by cold steel and a choice set of spells. However, as the new schools of magic grow and diversify, I wouldn't be surprised if a new generation of them will rise." He rubbed his leg. "Any more questions? I think the others should be awake by now. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get some breakfast and then get on our way again."

The sword's point remained where it was aimed at for a few moments more. Then, as abruptly as he had drawn it, the witcher sheathed the weapon. "Just so you know," he said darkly, "I don't trust you, mage. You should do well not to trust me in return."

Finsternis shrugged. "Thus far, you have not given me a reason not to trust you. To be cautious, yes. But just as you hold your own judgement, I will hold my own."

With a wordless growl, Geralt turned around and stalked back to the camp. Finsternis shook his head slightly and limped after him.


	3. A Storm Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a sudden storm overtakes the companions, they need to find shelter. Finsternis senses the storm isn't all natural, and makes an interesting discovery.

Sometime later the camp had been struck and they were on the road again. Like the day before, the skies were clear and blue, but there was no wind and soon the air felt hot and oppressive.

Once again, Wilford and Marthia kept their distance, leading their small cavalcade. Seated behind Geralt, Jaskier had traded in his endless stream of stories of the day before for a stream of questions directed at the mage. About his world and the differences between his one and this one ("What does gravity mean?"). About mages. About lands, cities, people. Finsternis was polite enough to reply, though for the most part he kept his answers short and factual. But when Jaskier asked him for stories and songs he surprised the bard by telling him a lengthy saga.

The bard was so moved that he jumped off Geralt's horse to give Finsternis an elegant bow. "Why, sir mage! You astound me. I didn't know you were a storyteller at heart!" Then he scowled and ran after the horse, because Geralt hadn't bothered to halt or even slow.

Finsternis took pity on him and extended his hand. "You can ride with me, should you wish."

"And gallant, too! You have my thanks as well as my admiration." Jaskier accepted the hand and joined him with a nimble jump. "Will you teach me this saga? It would make a brilliant addition to my repertoire."

"As you wish. Though the saga isn't by my hand, I'm sure it's fine. Nar always claimed stories are there to be shared."

"Who is Nar?"

"An old friend and sometime companion. Not unlike you and Geralt – only I wasn't travelling as a mage, back then." Finsternis gently nudged the horse to speed her up a little, closing the gap which had fallen between the other riders and themselves.

"Ah." After a moment of contemplative silence, Jaskier asked: "You wouldn't happen to know any more of those stories?"

"A few." Without looking, Finsternis just knew Jaskier looked like he found a treasure trove. The slight gasp was quite eloquent.

"And you're sure you don't mind to share them?"

"Perhaps not all at once," Finsternis said dryly.

"So you picked up the stray." They had caught up with the witcher and their other companions. It was Geralt who had commented, of course.

"I was reluctant to leave him behind. I don't like the look of those clouds behind us," Finsternis replied.

Geralt turned to look. The sky above their heads was still blue, but behind them dark clouds were rapidly overtaking them. "Hmm. You're right. I don't like it, either." He, too, spurred his horse to greater speed, from a brisk walk to a trot.

Finsternis cast another look behind him. The clouds were considerably closer than last time he looked, and that hadn't been too long ago. A gust of wind, surprisingly chilly, made him shiver. He reached down in his saddle bag for his cloak, pulled it out and fastened it. "Does the weather always change this rapidly around here?"

"I'm afraid not," Jaskier said in a worried tone. "Can you make this go faster?" He began to kick the horse.

"Don't!" Finsternis said sharply, restraining the horse before she could buckle. "Not unless you want to really run after us." He gave the horse another nudge. "And yes, I'm sure she can run quite fast. So can the witcher's horse, I'm equally sure. However, it would be unkind to leave the ones behind who requested our aid to begin with, don't you think?"

Jaskier looked from the two large steeds to the horses which belonged to Wilford and Marthia. They were a lot smaller and didn't look as sturdy. "Hmm, guess you're right."

A long roll of thunder almost drowned out his words. A flash of lightning, and then the dark clouds obscured the sun, plunging them from brightness into an eerie half-twilight. A cold gust of wind made them shiver.

Finsternis rode as close to Geralt as he could. "We're going to be drenched soon," he shouted over the rising wind. "Is there a place where we can find shelter nearby?"

The witcher shrugged. "I don't know this area that well!" he shouted back. "Maybe one of them has an idea." He turned his head to where Wilford and Marthia were riding and shouted something which Finsternis couldn't hear.

Then the rain began to fall. And fall it did, drenching them within seconds. Even Finsternis' cloak didn't protect him from the onslaught. Behind him, Jaskier cursed, softly and eloquently. The sound of the downpour drowned out most of his words. Again thunder rumbled. It sounded closer.

Dimly, blurred by the torrent and by the eerie light, he saw Wilford wave an arm. The man spurred his horse on to greater speed. Finsternis felt his own horse tremble under him, eager to be released from this trot, but he restrained her. The rain rapidly turned the road to mud and the last thing they needed was for the horse to slip and fall. "Just keep up with the others," he murmured, patting her back. "That's good enough for now."

They now rode in two rows, Wilford and Marthia in front, Geralt and Finsternis with Jaskier behind them. Even so, the rain made it hard to see the two persons before them. Finsternis turned his head to face the witcher. "They know a place?" He had to shout to be heard over the storm.

"Yes." Rain plastered Geralt's white hair to his face and back, water streamed down in tiny rivulets. Finsternis doubted he looked any different.

"How far?" he shouted. The witcher spread his hands in a silent reply.

"Well, isn't that just grand," Jaskier complained. "Hey, mage, isn't there anything you can do to keep us dry?"

"Maybe," Finsternis replied reluctantly. "Are you referring to magic?"

"Of course! What else?"

Finsternis reached into one of the small bags on his belt and handed a small, silvery packet to Jaskier. "This, for instance. Don't lose it, I didn't bring many."

Jaskier looked at the thin package. "One of your blankets?"

"It'll keep you dry if you throw it over you," Finsternis said with a shrug.

"Humph." Jaskier scowled. "Magic would be easier."

"For you, perhaps. For me, not so much. Besides, there is something in this storm…" There was nothing he could quite point a finger at, nothing he could indicate and say 'this feels wrong', other than perhaps the speed with which the storm had caught up with them. But there was this feeling of unease, a sense which Finsternis had learned not to ignore. He wanted to avoid using magic in this storm, if at all possible. "I just want to find shelter as soon as possible."

"That makes two of us."

In front of them Wilford waved suddenly and pointed to the right. Then he turned his horse and lead it off the road. Marthia followed. Geralt slowed down and pointed at Finsternis to go first. With an inward shrug, Finsternis signalled his horse to follow.

Now they were riding through rough terrain, bald patches of rock interspaced with thorny bushes and here and there a few clumps of coarse grass. The horses moved ahead slowly, carefully seeking a path where there was none. They were climbing slowly.

The rain and wind were relentless. Soon, they could no longer see the road. The storm was now directly above them, lightning flashed and the thunder followed almost immediately. The horses were nervous, but so far, not one of them had bucked or bolted.

Again Wilford waved and gestured, then he dismounted. Marthia followed his lead. Muttering under his breath, Finsternis first let Jaskier jump off, then he slid down and used his staff to steady himself. His bad leg, already stiff and aching, protested sharply.

Jaskier, who had the blanket wrapped tightly around himself, ran ahead and shouted something at Wilford. The man replied. Then the bard ran back to where Geralt and Finsternis were waiting. "The shelter is not far," he said. "But we'll have to walk from here, it's getting steeper." Then he rubbed his legs. "I hate thorns," he added moodily.

They struggled on through the worsening terrain. It grew steeper indeed, and the grassy patches disappeared and were replaced by bare earth and loose stones. Finsternis was glad for the support of both his staff and the horse. Without either, he would've fallen several times. As it were, he slipped more than once when a loose stone under his feet moved or a sudden slick patch was half-hidden by one of the low bushes. One time he tripped over a hidden root and would've gone down if it hadn't been for Jaskier, who grabbed him before he spilled face forward in the mud. "Thank you," Finsternis gasped.

"You're welcome."

They reached the shelter at last, a wide gap into the rock wall to their right. Wilford lead his horse through, the others followed. The gap was big enough to contain all four horses and their riders.

The sudden silence was almost deafening. The opening was in the lee of the storm, they no longer heard the howling of the wind. Even the roar of thunder was dimmer here.

Jaskier lowered himself to the ground. "Any chance of a fire?"

"Sometimes there's a stack of firewood in the back," Wilford replied. His weary voice sounded loud in the eerie silence. "I haven't been here in years. You should check."

"I'll do that." With large steps, Geralt walked past him to the back of the cave. "Hmm… it's not much, but it's better than nothing. Jaskier, give me a hand."

Together they carried the wood to the centre of the cave and built a fire. Finsternis sat down and closed his eyes. He was cold and weary to the bone. "I have the feeling this storm won't let up soon," he said tiredly.

"Agreed," the witcher said, feeding a fresh branch to the fire. "We'd better camp here for the night. We'll need more wood, though."

"I'll get some." Jaskier jumped nimbly to his feet again.

Geralt shook his head. "No. You stay here and tend to the horses. Wilford, will you give me a hand?"

"As you wish," the man said dully. "Marthia, maybe you can see to some food." Marthia nodded and began to rummage in the bags.

Finsternis stood up, wincing, and hobbled to the horses. "Let me give you a hand," he said to Jaskier.

"That's alright, I got it," the bard gasped. Finsternis' horse took two prancing steps to the side to avoid him.

The mage stifled a smile. "I can tell. Here, let me hold him." He grabbed the reins and soothed the horse. This time, when Jaskier approached her and worked on the straps, she stood quietly and waited until he was done.

Jaskier eyed him. "Can you do the same thing with Roach, by any chance?"

"Ah, that's the name of Geralt's horse? Hmm… she seems rather attached to her master, but I can try." Finsternis slowly approached the horse. Not that he had much of a choice, but this time the slowness was deliberate. He kept in full view of her and extended his hand to let her get used to his smell. Curious, Roach stretched her head towards him. Finsternis closed his hand, opened it again to reveal a carrot. "Here, dear, something to nibble."

Roach sniffed the carrot, then snatched it with a swift motion. Again, Finsternis grabbed the reins. "Quickly, Jaskier. She'll tolerate it, but not for long." And he added quietly, to the horse: "We'll have you warm and dry in a few moments if you just let him." Roach twitched and shook her ears, but she let Jaskier remove the saddle.

"Now, the other horses should give you little trouble. I'll attend to these two," Finsternis said, and since he still was closest to Roach, he began to rub her dry. And that was how Wilford and Geralt found them sometime later, when they entered carrying an armful of branches each: Finsternis still working on Roach, Jaskier, doing the same to Wilford's horse.

"Hm," Geralt said gruffly, dropping the wood near the fire. "That's unusual."

"I believe her desire to be dry and comfortable outweighs the discomfort of being attended to by a stranger," Finsternis said. "But if you want to take over, I can attend to my own."

Geralt looked critically at Finsternis' work. "You do have experience with horses," he said with a nod. "You're nearly finished, anyway. I'll give Jaskier a hand."

Dinner that night was a stew Marthia had prepared. Outside, the storm was still raging. It had grown dark by now, but lightning still flashed and the thunder still roared. But the feeling of unease Finsternis felt earlier had vanished when they entered the cave. Whatever it was, it influenced the storm, and in here they were beyond its reach.

Curious, Finsternis rose and hobbled to the entrance of the cave. Geralt looked up. "Something wrong?"

"I would like to check something." Slowly he released the shields he customarily wore in order not to be overwhelmed by the bombardment of information from his mage sense and reached out with his mind.

The world, observed with mage sense, was a wondrous thing. Multicoloured, multi-layered.. He felt the stone around him as if it were a living thing, old and patient and enduring. He saw the people in the cave like moving, breathing sparks of life. Jaskier was a multicoloured lantern, his spirit as bright as his clothes. Enduring optimism, a wondrous outlook upon the world, no matter what. Even the negative encounters he'd had – and Finsternis saw the scars of those, darker tones in his spectrum – were experiences he relished, materials for stories and songs, something to be embraced instead of feared.

In contrast, Wilford and Marthia were diminutive sparks, bland and flickering. There was something weird about them. Something to be ponder upon at a later time. For now, Finsternis stored it away.

Geralt was… different. Whatever it took to become a witcher had not only left its marks, it had changed his fundamental nature. No wonder witchers were often shunned, considered unnatural. Not that he was, or at least, no more unnatural than Finsternis himself. But what Finsternis had once achieved by channelling far too much raw magic, transforming him by sheer accident into a being part magic himself, something similar had been deliberately done to the witcher. Not all at once, as had happened to Finsternis, but a process which had taken months, years. Unlike Finsternis, Geralt was not part magic, but that what had been done to him had opened the paths of magic to him.

It was very interesting to see, but again, that was not what he was looking for. He shifted his focus to the cave entrance and beyond. 

Yes, the closer he came to the entrance of the cave, the stronger he felt it, that eerie feeling, that feeling of wrongness. It was now fully dark outside, but with his mage sight he saw the patterns in the sky: the whirling wind, the rain, the dark clouds and thunderheads. Lightning were near painful flashes of raw energy, too much to be safely harnessed or used. As any storm, it was beautiful and awe-inspiring and terrifying all at once.

Soon enough, he perceived something else. There was something deliberate in this storm, something dark and brooding. Not necessarily aimed at this small group of travellers, maybe not aimed at anyone or anything in particular. Someone testing their powers, perhaps. But the longer Finsternis stood here and observed, the more he became certain something was feeding this storm, it had been created by magic. "Interesting…" he whispered.

"What is it you sense, mage?" Geralt asked suddenly. He had walked over without making a sound, but Finsternis had sensed his approach anyway.

Without turning his head, Finsternis replied: " Magic has been used to evoke this weather. Is this customary?"

"Really? Hmm…" The witcher concentrated and Finsternis felt him reach out with whatever the man's equivalent of mage sense was. "There's an awful lot of power needed to create this," Geralt said conversationally.

"That is the impression I got as well. We're not even in the centre." That centre had passed over them, judging between the fact that thunder and lightning no longer appeared simultaneously. But it hadn't moved in hours.

"I'd hate to be the poor sod caught in the heart of it," Geralt said with a shrug. "But as long as it isn't us… Hopefully it'll have passed tomorrow." He turned to walk back inside. "Marthia just called. Stew's ready."

"If it hasn't, I'd be extremely worried," Finsternis muttered. He was about to follow the mage back into the cave when something else caught his attention. A tug of magic, strong and directed at himself. Abruptly, he realised that as he had been recklessly probing the storm, he had inadvertedly revealed himself to whoever was directing it. Intrigued, Finsternis waited for the next move.

It didn't take long. The next flash of lightning drew a face into the air, a face with dark hair and violet eyes, which smiled at him and winked. Then the face became surprised, shocked – and abruptly disappeared.

"Well, that was interesting," Finsternis muttered and followed the witcher back into the cave. This world was strange, the magic patterns were stranger still, and that face had been strangest of all.

Marthia silently handed him a bowl of stew.

After dinner, Jaskier played softly on his lute and sang a few snatches, here and there. He seemed to be creating something, a new story or a new song. None of them was in the mood to talk much and after a while Jaskier stopped playing and carefully wrapped his lute again to protect it from the elements. 

Wilford and Marthia had already turned in, they were sleeping on the other side of the fire. Geralt had wrapped himself in a blanket and stared moodily at the fire. Finsternis had placed one of his thin blankets on the stone floor and tried to make himself comfortable. It didn't work. After the strain of the unexpected climb earlier today his bad leg seemed to be on fire. There was rarely a moment it didn't hurt, even on a good day, but this was extreme.

The pain kept him awake. Or was it more than just the pain? It was far easier to drop his mental shields than to raise them again, and pain and fatigue made it that much harder. So he noticed many things, the solid comforting strength from the drowsing horses, the fleeting dreams (oddly colourful shadows crossing their strange, dull lights) of Wilford and Marthia, Jaskier's own light dimming as he slowly descended into sleep, the multi-layered whirl which was Geralt.

There was something else, pulling at the edge of his awareness. It wasn't the storm, even though it was still raging outside, relentless. This deep inside the cave, he could barely feel the power which created or fed it. Besides, he knew that sense now and could filter it out of his awareness. No, there was something else. Not one of his companions, either.

The mage opened his eyes and sat up. By now, everyone else had fallen asleep. Finsternis sighed and rubbed his leg. It didn't make any difference. Well, sleep was out of the question now. He might as well try and find out what attracted his attention. Maybe it would distract him long enough to get some rest later on.

He closed his eyes and focused his inner awareness, let everything else recede. As his surroundings became clearer, all physical sensations grew more distant, less important, just one more fact amongst many.

And there it was, that bit which stood out. A flash of red, invisible to normal eyes. It came from the back of the cave. Finsternis pulled back slightly, allowed himself reluctantly to become more aware of himself. The pain ceased to be just a random fact and became once again very vibrant focus point.

He remained where he was a moment longer, juggling between the spectrum of mage awareness and pain, until he found the centre to balance both. Then he planted his staff on the floor and dragged himself up, as quietly as possible. With the state his leg was in, it wasn't very quiet at all. Finsternis felt Geralt becoming more alert. Of course. Well, let the witcher do with it what he wanted, it was hardly relevant to his own actions. Finsternis hobbled to the back of the cave. One of the horses looked up drowsily and gave a gentle snort. Absently, Finsternis reached out with his mind and stroked the edge of the horse's awareness, soothing, calming, the mental equivalent of 'It's nothing, go back to sleep.'

There was an opening in the cave wall, all the way in the back which the campfire's light never lit. He could see it clearly. Again, there was that red flash, stronger now. It came from deeper inside, of course. And where the power which fed the storm had felt dark and ominous, this light felt oddly comforting. Welcoming, almost.

The opening wasn't wide, he barely fit through it. If the witcher had a mind to follow him, he would have a hard time getting through. Finsternis didn't hesitate and stepped through the narrow opening.

It was a crack in the cave wall, forming a very narrow natural corridor. Sharp rock splinters tugged at his clothes and scratched his bare hands. Nevertheless, he used the walls to steady himself as he made his way deeper and deeper into the crack, following the lure of the light. Something was there, and it was reaching out for him.

One last curve, a place where the crack was so impossibly narrow that he had to twist sideways to fit through. His leg screamed bloody murder, but that was something to deal with later. His target was in front of him, half embedded into a wall.

It looked like a pearl the size of a fortune teller's crystal ball, but red instead of pearly white. Dark shadows drifted lazily across its surface, making it seem like a red moon partially obscured by clouds. Finsternis reached out with one hand, but stopped short of touching it. His other hand still clutched his staff.

The silver line which curved along its length lit up of its own volition – but oddly, the silver light was tinted with red. "Merciful stars," Finsternis whispered. "This must be a Pearl of Worlds – a Pearl of Dreams."

The moment the words had left his mouth, they seemed to hang in the air, trembling with weight. He had not used the old language when he spoke, but the names were ancient in itself, as old as creation.

And the Pearl detached itself from the wall and landed in his outstretched hand. It shrunk along the way and by the time he held it, it was the size of a marble. Finsternis slipped it into a pocket.

Getting back out of the crack proved to be the biggest challenge. The delicate balance was gone, pain and fatigue caught up rapidly now. He pulled himself through the crack, using his staff and whatever hold he could get from the wall. He had to drag the bad leg now, moving slowly and deliberately to ensure it didn't snag behind an obstacle.

Time stretched, it felt like he'd spend hours in this place, or days. But eventually the crack widened and he emerged in the cave again. He leaned against the wall to regain his breath. It was still dark outside and everyone was still asleep.

Everyone save one.

It didn't surprise him at all when a gruff voice nearby asked: "Where the fuck have you been?"

"In there," Finsternis indicated the crack he just left with a tilt of his head. "Obviously."

"Fine," Geralt growled. "Different question. Why?"

"Something called out to me." Walking back to the campfire suddenly seemed too great an effort. His good leg decided to call it a day and the kind wall guided him down until he sat, still leaning against it. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"Not if you sleep here, you don't." The witcher grabbed his arm and pulled him up. Together they made their way back to the others.

"By the way," the words just slipped out without any direct input from his brain. "Do you know someone with black hair and violet eyes?"

Geralt abruptly halted, which caused Finsternis to stumble and nearly fall again. "A woman?"

"Yes."

He grabbed the mage by both arms and seemed to be able to restrain himself from shaking Finsternis with great effort. "Where did you see her?"

"I appreciate you helping me back to the camp," Finsternis said coldly, "but please let me go." For the moment, all fatigue had disappeared. He drew power from the staff, just in case whatever emotion held the witcher in its grip got the better of him.

It did not. "Sorry," Geralt said and relaxed his hold. "Was she in there?" He indicated the crack.

Now it was Finsternis who was momentarily confused. "What? No. I saw her outside, when I studied the storm. I think she is the one who created it. Whoever she is," he added pointedly.

"She's a sorceress. Yennefer." There were many layers in the way the witcher said that last word. It instantly told Finsternis a few things: that Geralt had very strong feelings for this woman, and that their relationship was complex. "I didn't know she could… Hmm…" the witcher fell silent. Once back, he resumed his brooded staring at the glowing embers of the fire.

Finsternis just rolled into his blanket, closed his eyes and fell asleep at last. It was a deep sleep this time, and dreamless, though at one point he thought he heard (in a dream? at the edge of awareness when he was almost, but not quite, awake?) two people talking, a man and a woman. He was too tired to concentrate on whatever it was they were saying, and soon the voices faded and he resumed sleeping.


	4. Birgingen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group arrives in Birgingen and discovers how hard the village has been hit by the storm of the previous night. The local priest singles out Finsternis for a tirade against magic. Some weird things happen in the house of Wilford and Marthia, and the mage has another interesting dream.

When Finsternis woke up at last, the following morning, the storm had dissipated. Bright sunlight fell into the cave. He was the last to wake, the others were sitting around the fire, talking quietly and drinking tea. Marthia handed him a mug as soon as he sat up.

"Thank you," Finsternis croaked. He felt cold and bleary, not fully awake. The warm mug between his hands provided welcome heat. He blew gently over the surface and inhaled. The smell was refreshing: mint with some other elements he couldn't quite place. He took a small sip, careful not to burn his tongue. The mint was refreshing and washed away some of his fatigue. He looked up and found Marthia looking at him with a shy smile. Finsternis tried to smile back.

"Well, it's a lovely day!" Jaskier, who had strolled to the cave's entrance, came bouncing back. "Warm, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Perfect travelling weather. By the way, Wilford, how far is our destination?"

"Two more days if all goes well," Wilford said in his soft voice. "Maybe three. We lost half a day here yesterday, with the storm and all. If we hurry, we'll make it to Birgingen tonight."

"Yes, about that storm," Jaskier remarked. "My friend here said it seemed the storm wasn't natural." So Geralt had told him. "Do you know anything about that?"

Wilford shook his head. "All I know is that it was very sudden, and that was unusual." He rose. "We better start packing if we wish to leave soon."

Finsternis finished his tea, handed the mug back and rose with the others. The night's rest had restored his mental shields, though he was still very much aware of the marble-sized pearl in one of the bags on his belt. While they doused the fire, stacked the remaining firewood in the back of the cave, saddled the horses and lead them out of the cave, Finsternis pondered about the object.

Pearl of Worlds, Pearl of Dreams… he had recognised it instantly when he saw it. Which was odd, because he had the feeling he had never heard about any such item before. Maybe he had encountered a reference to it once? During his studies to become a mage, or later when he started to teach a new generation of mages, using knowledge he had gathered from both the Black Pole and the White? Or maybe he had come across it somewhere else entirely, a fleeting reference once seen and then forgotten, laying buried amongst the other clutter in his mind until he saw the Pearl itself?

Maybe. No way of actually knowing. Whatever the reason, he had recognised it. But what was it, exactly? What did he know?

He let his thoughts wander as he busied himself with other tasks – such as leading his horse safely back to the road without slipping and falling himself. The ground was still wet and mud coated and hid loose stones. Each step had to be carefully planned, a task which occupied most of his attention. What was left was free to wander as it pleased.

Finally, the ground was flat enough that they could ride safely. Once again, Wilford and Marthia lead the way. Jaskier was seated once again behind Geralt. Once they reached the road, Finsternis pulled the pearl from the bag and studied it for the first time in the light of day.

At first glance it looked like a large pearl, with a pink/reddish cast. But when he looked closer he could still see shadows drifting across its surface, or just below the surface. They flowed in mesmerizing patterns, drawing and holding his attention. The pearl seemed to grow bigger the longer he watched it, though he could tell from the way it felt in his hand that this was just an illusion.

It would be incredibly easy to get lost in those swirling patterns, to look closer and deeper into the pearl until the one holding it was lost… lost in dreams. Finsternis smiled briefly and closed his hand around the pearl. Abruptly the spell was broken. Well, that explained – partially, at least – the 'Pearl of Dreams' bit.

"What do you have there?" Jaskier asked when Finsternis moved to tuck the object back again.

"Something I found in the cave last night." He was reluctant to show it to the bard, or to anyone else, until he had learned more about it. How to snap someone out of the dreaming, should they get drawn in too deep, for one. That would be a real risk and one he would rather avoid. The attraction was too real, too strong.

Which begged the question, what made him immune?

"Oh," Jaskier said. "Is that where you got those scratches from?"

Finsternis looked. Half a night's rest and a touch of magic had healed most of the cuts and bruises, only the deeper ones remained. On the back of his hand was one of those, a long scratch. "Yes."

"Is it worth anything? What you found?"

 _Priceless in the hands of the right person, worthless in the hands of others…_ "Maybe. I'd have to study it closer. But that's not something I can do from here."

"Well, alright. Tell me if it's something interesting," Jaskier said and began to tell a story to whomever wanted to listen.

As they came closer to Birgingen, they encountered more traffic on the road. A few farmers with their carts, bringing goods to the market or to shops. Occasionally they encountered other riders. A small cavalcade in uniform trotted briskly past them. Their leader looked curiously at Geralt and his companions, but the group didn't slow down.

Other travellers gawked with greater interest at them. It didn't take long before Finsternis became tired of the obvious gesture of people staring at Geralt, then shifting their gaze to Finsternis, then back again. He raised the hood of his cloak, arranged it so that his own white hair was hidden.

"Tired of looking like me?" the witcher asked with grim amusement.

Finsternis shrugged. "Hardly. However, it seems to me that people are already confused when they see you. I do not wish to add to their confusion – especially if that could lead to trouble, further down the line." The storm-tossed face came to mind when he said that: the mischievous wink, the look changing to sudden shock. He knew that if he ever encountered the owner of that face, he'd have to do some explaining.

"Hmm," the witcher said and fell silent.

About an hour past noon they passed another inn: half a day's travel from Birgingen by horse, about a day on foot or with a heavy cart. "If we stop here for a full meal, we won't make it to Birgingen before sundown," Wilford said.

"Gates close at sundown?" Geralt asked. Wilford nodded.

"I can run inside and buy some bread and other stuff," Jaskier suggested and jumped lightly to the ground. "Or at least I could, if I didn't find myself sadly defunct in the monetary department."

Geralt grunted. "Didn't you get money from the mage just a few days ago?"

Jaskier looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. "But those are foreign coins, Geralt! I don't think they'll accept that."

"Silver is silver."

"And they'll try to stiff us. You know how that goes. And besides, I doubt there's enough in here to pay for the five of us." Jaskier held up his purse. Finsternis doubted it was the same one he had seen a few days ago.

"Maybe it helps if you take the one where you put the mage's money in," Geralt suggested sweetly.

Jaskier grumbled. "Bread, cheese. Something else? Meat? Maybe some golden wine, while we're at it?"

"That sounds good," the witcher agreed.

"You're going to ruin me," Jaskier moaned, tucking the purse away. "Marthia, may I ask you to accompany me? I doubt I'll be able to carry everything myself."

Marthia glanced at her husband, then climbed down and followed Jaskier inside. They returned not much later, carrying two full bags of food and one bottle of wine. "I suggest we save the wine for later," Jaskier said, climbing back on the horse.

"Don't drink and drive," Finsternis murmured. Jaskier looked at him weirdly and handed him a piece of bread.

They stopped briefly for a picknick, some time later. Long enough to give the horses and themselves a bit of rest, but not too long. Wilford glanced back several times to look at the sun and did his best to spur his horse on to greater speed. "I hope we'll make it," he muttered. "We should be able to make it."

But it was rough going here. If this place hadn't been the epicentre of the storm of the day before, it had at least been close. The road was muddy and in several spots it had been all but washed away. People – from the village, presumably – were busy making repairs, but it was slow going. They passed a few carts which were stuck in the mud.

As for themselves, Wilford was forced to give up his attempts to make his horse go faster. Once again, they had to slow down enough in order not to slip. "But that's alright," Wilford said. "They're still working on the road, which means the gates aren't closed yet. We'll make it by tonight." He looked back, not at the sun but at his companions this time. "You can stay at our place. It's not much, and we don't have extra beds. But we have enough room for all of you to stay warm and dry. You could lie in the hay if you like." He looked uncertain, as if he was afraid that such lofty persons like the witcher and the bard would decline such a poor place to sleep – as if they hadn't all spent the previous nights sleeping on the ground.

"I'm sure we'll come to an arrangement which will satisfy all of us," Finsternis said mildly.

They reached their destination not long before sundown. Birgingen turned out to be a fair-sized village, almost a city, nested in the embrace of the foot of the mountain range. The low rolling hills which stretched out in front of Birgingen were rich and fertile, even the storm from last night wouldn't have lasting effects. Behind the village, the mountains reached an impressive height. Somewhere in there was their destination.

The gates were still open and people were hurrying towards them. The group rode even slower until they reached the gates. Two guards stopped them, but this time it was Wilford who stepped forward and did the talking. "They are my guests. Tomorrow they'll leave the city again."

"So, your business is not with us?" The guard on the right addressed Geralt directly.

"No," the witcher said curtly.

"That's a pity," the guard muttered.

Geralt frowned. "How so?"

"We might have use for such as you. That storm from yesterday – people are saying it was unnatural. And if it happens again…" the man shivered at the idea. "Anyway, I'll let the captain know that you're here. If he or someone else decides to ask…"

"I'm sure they'll know where to find me," Gerald said grimly. The weary expression told Finsternis this wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Oh yes. Like the mages in his own world, witchers were rarely welcomed if they weren't useful.

"Thank you for your cooperation. By the way, you might want to walk from here." The guard nodded at his colleague and they stepped aside. They entered the village that was Birgingen.

It didn't take long before they had to take the guard's advice. The street was littered with debris, fallen stones and splintered wood. Mud coated the street and most of the rubble.

"I think we know what the storm centred on," Jaskier said softly. Birgingen must indeed have been the epicentre of yesterday's storm, and it had fared a lot worse than the travellers.

There was hardly a roof undamaged, some roofs were gone altogether. More than one house showed fire damage from a lightning strike, several had completely burned down. Most of the debris on the streets came from damaged houses, but at some places lightning had hit the ground hard enough to make a small crater and flung stones away. Here and there attempts had been made to clear the streets, but mostly people concentrated on trying to salvage what was left of their houses.

Finsternis tried to strengthen his mental shields, but it was hard. The storm had been fuelled by magic, he had seen that yesterday. Now is mage sense told him the rest. The storm had dissipated, but the remnants of the magic which had powered here took longer to die down. He saw red traces everywhere, in the gaps of the houses, the scars on the street. A particular dense red spot was somewhere ahead of him, and there were several of those a bit further away. The raw strength was almost painful, even now. He hated to think what it would have felt like in Birgingen yesterday during the height of the storm.

"Merciful Gods, what happened here?" Wilford whispered, staring wide-eyed at the ruins. They carefully manoeuvred through the streets, following Wilford's lead.

That's an unusual combination of words _,_ Finsternis mused. It seemed that others thought along the same lines, for Jaskier said, quietly for once: "Maybe it actually was one of the gods. Who knows? Some divine punishment for something. It's happened before, I have a great song about it. But…" he looked around, "this might not be the right place to sing it."

The street they were passing through widened and they emerged on a square. The buildings lining it were considerably larger than the houses they had passed thus far. They appeared to have suffered less damage, too – all but one, the largest building which had been standing in the centre of the square. 'Had been' were the operative words, since what remained were smouldering ruins. One of the red knots from the storm his mage sense had seen earlier hovered above them.

A man dressed in priestly robes stood in front of the ruins, shouting to a small group of people. As the companions came closer, they heard what the priest screamed. "-the unnatural storm! It has been magic which sent it here to destroy us, to destroy the temple of the Eternal Fire, but we will not succumb! We will rebuild our temple, stronger and greater than before, and the Sacred Flame will burn again! And-" The man suddenly noticed Finsternis and flung out one arm. "Here stands one of these accursed beings, maybe the very one who conjured up this storm! Here he is, admiring his handiwork!"

"Uh-oh," Jaskier said. "Geralt, maybe you-"

Finsternis handed the reins of his horse to Jaskier and stepped forward, ignoring the squawk of protest behind him. He limped slowly, leaning on his staff. A practiced movement made his hood fall back and revealed his pale face and white hair.

The priest fell silent, looked from Finsternis to the bulk of the witcher behind him, then back. The small crowd surrounding the priest split as Finsternis approached. He walked through them and stopped in front of the priest.

Mage sense showed Finsternis the man's confusion. He was looking at a person dressed as a mage, but with hair like a witcher. The priest didn't know what to make of him, but that uncertainty didn't weaken him. On the contrary, it made him more dangerous. Like a true zealot, he would channel that uncertainty into the power of his own convictions, given a chance.

"You are a priest of the Eternal Fire?" Finsternis asked. He spoke in a soft, conversational tone, but somehow his words carried far enough to reach even Geralt, Jaskier and the others. 

The priest drew himself up to his full height, which turned out to be just a bit shorter than Finsternis himself. "I am the Reverend Yannis of the Church of the Eternal Fire, yes," he proclaimed loudly.

Finsternis tilted his head, as if he was studying a curious specimen. "Greetings. My name is Finsternis Zwartén. This is my first visit to this village. Can you please tell me what happened here?"

"As if you didn't know!" the priest spat.

"I believe Birgingen has been hit by the same storm which overtook us yesterday," Finsternis said calmly. "Is this correct?"

"An unnatural storm!" Yannis shouted. "A storm of magic! Look what it has done!" He pointed at the ruins.

"You believe this has been done by magic?" Finsternis asked, raising an eyebrow. "What magic could possibly harm a temple of the Eternal Fire, under the protection of your god?"

Some people in the crowd began to whisper, someone laughed but was quickly silenced.

"Dark magic! Very powerful, cursed and fuelled by unholy objects! But rest assured, the Sacred Flame-"

"Will burn again. Yes, you mentioned that." The tone in Finsternis' voice hadn't changed. Still conversational, professional and cool. "But please, I'm trying to understand. Your faith stands against things magic, right?" Finsternis hadn't known this, none of Jaskier's stories had dealt with the Eternal Fire or its deity. But the passion and loathing in the man was unmistakable, part of his very fibre.

"Yes, as you should well know, you filthy-"

"True, I have been cleaner, after spending two days in the mud like this," Finsternis said. Again, one or two people laughed briefly. "But really." He gestured at himself. Look at me, his gesture said. A mud-splattered cripple. And you take me to be so powerful that I can create a storm to lay waste to your temple and damage your village? "Can magic truly do this? Level a temple protected by the Eternal Fire, anathema to magic? Then it would be a thing to fear, indeed. But I don't believe it. A lightning bolt strikes the highest point in the area, as I'm sure many here know…" Again, people murmured. Many had seen a lone tree in a field being hit by lightning, or had seen other examples over time. "So it's no wonder your temple has been hit hardest. There is no magic involved. Just a tall temple and a ferocious storm. Remind me to introduce you to the concept of lightning conductors at some point," he added in a mutter.

The priest opened his mouth, to begin another tirade, no doubt, but this time Finsternis cut him short. "I am truly sorry for your loss," he said, and this time his voice was softer still, and gentle instead of cold. "But please, do not harm innocents in your shock and anger." He smiled, wearily, gently. "You've had a very long night and a long day," he continued, a bit louder this time. "What you need most is comfort, and food, and rest." He looked at the small crowd. "Please. Is there anyone amongst you who can help the Reverend? Give him something to eat and a place to rest?"

A few people stepped forward. Then more. Finsternis moved aside as the priest became surrounded by his flock, eager to care for him. He slowly walked back to the others.

"Well, that was smooth," Jaskier said admiringly. "Did you use magic?"

"No. But I still suggest we get out of here fast. If he starts off again, even a small crowd can get ugly. And I'm reluctant to use any magic here." Not with those red streaks still hanging everywhere. Not with that slowly untangling knot nearby. "Wilford, will you lead us on, please?"

"Yes. I hope our house is still standing." He led them away from the square, through a few narrow streets. Strangely enough, the narrow ones were more passable than the broad street they had passed earlier. Houses which had been hit here had mostly damaged each other, and the winding streets had made it harder for rivulets of water to tear away whole stones.

"You would make a great bard," Jaskier resumed. "No magic at all, you said?"

"None. But I told you before I used to travel with one. I guess I picked up a trick or two."

"Hah! Geralt, did you hear that? Maybe you should try to learn a trick or two from me!" Jaskier said gleefully.

The witcher looked at him. "I think we better stick to our own trades."

They rounded a corner and came upon a wider street again. Wilford sighed in relief. "It's still there." He pointed at a house a bit further up the street. It looked more or less alright. "Maybe some damage to the roof," Wilford muttered to himself, accelerating the pace. Marthia pushed the reins of her horse in Wilford's hand and ran ahead, slipped in the narrow gap between their house and the next and was gone. The others followed at a slower pace. They had to walk around to approach the house from the other side, so that they could stable the horses in the back. There was just enough room for the four of them.

Finsternis was the last to enter and stable his horse. He worked slowly, with frequent rests. The magical turmoil around him, the aftermath of the storm, left him weary and drained. The stoic, solid presence of the horse soothed his mind. He almost dreaded having to return to the others. Bedding in the stable himself, just crawling into the hay and sleep, suddenly seemed a very attractive idea.

"No, not yet," he muttered, talking half to the horse, half to himself. "There is yet more I need to learn. Tomorrow we'll leave and go… I still don't know. To meet with people which aren't human to do something which we don't know for them. For some reason." He sighed. "I'm tired. This world is too heavy, in too many ways. I need rest."

_Then let me give you rest, weary mage. Come and rest your head…_

Finsternis started. The voice had come out of nowhere, and a quick glance showed him nobody else was here. His mage sense didn't pick up anyone either. Everyone else was inside the house. Then who was this?

It wasn't a voice he recognised either. He thought back of the dream he had a few nights ago, the first night in this world. He had heard two people talk, a man and a woman – but this hadn't been her voice, either.

"Who are you?"

 _Someone who sees your pain and who wishes to ease it, sweet mage,_ the voice whispered. _Come find me. I will wait for you…_

"You must have a name," Finsternis said curtly. He focused more on his mage sense, though it meant exposing more of himself to the tattered remains of the magical storm.

Those red strands… There was one here. Inside the stable. Brushing past him. Touching him.

"You did this?"

 _Yes…_ Was that triumph in her voice? Exaltation? Hard to tell with only a whisper. But still…

"Why?"

No answer. But he felt something brush his hand, like a caress. _I will wait for you…_ the voice whispered. And then it was gone. The red strand dissipated.

Shivering, Finsternis gave the horse a last pat and left the stable to rejoin his companions.

The storm had done relatively little damage to Wilford's house. One shutter had blown off and the window had shattered. But the glass had been swept up and the resulting puddle of water was gone. Wilford himself had repaired the shutter while Finsternis was in the stable and had come back just before Finsternis himself. Marthia was fixing dinner, aided by Geralt and Jaskier.

"Is there anything I can do?" Finsternis asked. He could use some distraction after his encounter in the stable. But Marthia shook her head and waved him away. Shortly afterwards she chased Jaskier and Geralt out of her kitchen as well, beckoned for Wilford in their place and closed the door firmly behind them.

"I guess they need a little privacy," Jaskier said with a wide grin. Finsternis and Geralt traded a look.

"I'm not so sure," Finsternis said.

"What makes you say that?" Jaskier asked. "I mean, it's only natural that they need a little alone time, especially after… all of this." He gestured outside.

"All of this, yes…" He looked at the witcher. "What do you make of 'all of this'? Especially the temple. What do you think?"

"It seems an odd coincidence that the temple was destroyed," Geralt said after a moment's thought. "It seems almost targeted. But what you said was correct. It would take an enormous amount of magic to destroy that temple. It is well-protected. Or rather, it was."

"But if the magic was used to power a storm, then technically it was the storm which destroyed the temple, right?" Jaskier said. "As you pointed out back on the square, lightning does seek out the highest point. So if someone wanted to destroy the temple without throwing actual magic at it, all they need to do is create a gigantic storm and send it this way. The storm will do the rest."

Finsternis sighed. "Only it takes a lot of power to create a storm and feed it, let alone send it to where you want it to go. I doubt I could do that." Not without channelling unhealthy amounts of magic, and that was something he had only done once, in extreme circumstances. Not something he'd choose to do again if he ever could avoid it. And certainly not for something like this. But perhaps things were different here.

He thought back to the face he had seen, the voice he'd heard. "This Yennifer. Tell me about her."

Jaskier stared from Finsternis to Geralt and back. "Yennefer? What does she have to- No. Wait. No. You're not going to tell me that she-"

"He said he saw her face last night."

"And I think I heard her voice just now," Finsternis added. He told Geralt and Jaskier what happened in the stable.

Geralt frowned at him. "Why does she want to meet _you_?"

Finsternis raised an eyebrow in reply. "How should I know? I have never met her. I've never heard of her until you mentioned her name last night. But – I think she was expecting to see you when she showed her face. Maybe she is curious, intrigued. I don't know."

"I knew she was a powerful sorceress," Jaskier said slowly. "But I didn't know she was this powerful. To call up a storm? That's…"

"How well do you know her?" Finsternis asked.

When Geralt didn't immediately answer, Jaskier began to laugh. "Oh well, I'd say he knows every-"

The witcher's glare would have frozen water. Jaskier stopped abruptly. "She is a powerful sorceress indeed," Geralt said coldly. "And yes, I know her… well."

"If you think I'm interested in every detail of your relationship, let me assure you that I'm not," Finsternis' reply was equally cold. "I need to know two things. One, is she capable of doing this. Provided the answer to the first question is 'yes', the second one is 'why'?"

"I believe the answer to the first question could well be yes," Geralt replied. "There are objects that can focus magic, or shape it… If she has one of those, then most certainly yes. As to your second question, I have no idea. Other than what I already said about the attack on the temple. Maybe the priest offended her once. I don't know. She doesn't share her grievances with me, mage."

"It would have been a lot easier if she had," Finsternis muttered.

Geralt cast him a glance. "She's as secretive as you are. I guess it must be a wizard trait."

"Me?" Finsternis raised his eyebrow again. Then it clicked. "Are you referring to this?" He reached into the small bag and produced the marble-sized pearl.

"I believe your words were 'I will tell you tomorrow'," the witcher said dryly.

"Yes." Finsternis rubbed his forehead. "I found it in the back of the cave last night. I felt it calling to me. It's called a Pearl of Worlds, or a Pearl of Dreams. Don't stare at it too long," he said sharply, pulling the pearl out of Jaskier's reach.

The troubadour blinked. "What did you do that for? I was just looking at it. It's very intriguing… it seemed to grow as I was watching. And those shadows…"

"Would draw you in until you're lost forever." The witcher extended his hand. "Mind if I hold it?"

Curious, Finsternis handed the pearl to him. "Have you ever encountered this before? Or something like it?"

"No…" Geralt said, studying the little object. "Never heard of it, either. But isn't it a curious coincidence that it was hidden in a cave we just randomly happened to find, waiting for you?"

"Curious indeed," Finsternis said flatly. That cave hadn't been a random find. Wilford had led them straight to it. Had he known? Had he planned this? After all, they had specifically requested a sorcerer or a mage to join them. "Which reminds me. When you were asked why they hired you – hired us, I should say, you let Wilford tell us. He gave us very scant information. But Jaskier said you are very picky in the cases you accept. His stories confirm this. So, what makes this one so special?"

Silence. Geralt was still staring at the Pearl. "Witcher!" Finsternis said sharply.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." He handed the pearl back, stared into the distance for a few moments longer, then shook his head abruptly. "A very dangerous object," he murmured.

"Did you hear my question?" Finsternis prompted. "What makes this case so special?"

"It's not often that I get hired by non-humans. Less often still that the person hiring me is human and speaks for those who are not."

Finsternis thought back about the difference between Jaskier, Wilford and Marthia when seen with mage sense and had his doubts about that last bit. He wondered if Geralt shared that doubt. "But you don't know the exact nature of this job?"

"Wilford was very reticent on that subject," Geralt replied.

Which, Finsternis observed, wasn't a no. 

Meanwhile, Jaskier was getting antsy. "I'm starving," he announced. "What is it they're doing in that kitchen together, anyway? I'm all for giving them a little privacy, but this is getting ridiculous." He walked over to the kitchen and knocked on the door. No answer. He opened the door and looked inside. "Uh… guys?"

Finsternis and Geralt looked inside as well. The stove was on, a sauce was stewing… but neither Wilford nor Marthia were there.

"I don't suppose they climbed out of the window?" Jaskier said, pointing at it. It was small and narrow, and the shutter was closed.

"I doubt it. This was the one which broke. Wilford nailed the shutter to the wood, he said he'd have to buy hinges later," Geralt replied. "Besides, I doubt he would fit through there. Marthia might, but not him."

Jaskier looked around. "Is there a cellar here? Storage room?"

Finsternis had done a scan of his own and found no other exits. "No cellar. Yes to the storage room, but not accessible from here. The only door here is the one we just came from." No suspicious strands here either, red or otherwise.

"Maybe… they walked out while we were staring into the pearl?" Jaskier suggested. "I don't know, just trying something."

"Would you young folk please help me set the table?" Wilford's voice sounded from behind them. Finsternis turned back and stared. Wilford had entered the room they just left through another door, followed by Marthia. She carried a tablecloth, he brought one extra chair with him and set it at the table. Then he opened a cupboard and took out five earthenware plates and handed them to Jaskier.

"But… you just…" Jaskier didn't have a hand free to point at the kitchen.

Wilford patted his shoulder. "Just help Marthia set the table, there's a good boy. Now, I'll need to stir the sauce. Excuse me." He brushed past Geralt and Finsternis and stepped into the kitchen once again.

Finsternis shrugged. "Maybe Jaskier's suggestion was right," he said. It was as good an explanation as any.

Geralt just answered with his stereotypical "Hmmm."

They ate, with Jaskier filling most of the silence as usual. Wilford and Geralt occasionally reacted, making it nominally a conversation of sorts. Marthia was her usual quiet self, and Finsternis was mostly lost in thought.

Of course, Jaskier asked where Wilford and Marthia went to. Wilford looked quite surprised. "I went to get an extra chair, of course. Marthia wanted to pull out the table linen. Doesn't it look nice? We don't get much occasion to use it these days. It's good to have a bit of life back in the house, even briefly. We have a good life here, together, but it does get lonely sometimes." He reached across the table for Marthia's hand and they smiled at each other. Once again, they looked like the most ordinary middle-aged couple in the world, parents whose children had left their home sometime ago and who now grew graciously old together.

Still, Finsternis doubted that this was their whole story. He kept wondering if they were human altogether. What alternatives were there? From the stories Jaskier had told him, he remembered dwarves, dragons, elves, halflings… He barely knew the difference between these races. Oh, he had come across descriptions of those, in stories he had encountered here and there, but he had never actually met a non-human – other than someone from his own world, and she was from none of those races.

"Are you enjoying the meal, Finsternis?" Wilford asked suddenly. "You're so quiet."

Finsternis smiled, one of those lightning smiles which never hung around for long. "My apologies, I was thinking. The food is very good." And it was, minced meatballs in tomato sauce, with plenty of bread to soak it up with, and a salad. The sauce was thick and spicy, with herbs Finsternis couldn't all identify.

Wilford smiled back. "Eat, eat! You think too much and eat too little."

"Maybe you're right," Finsternis said and took a few more bites to be polite. He hoped Jaskier would take over from here again and provide a welcome distraction, but Wilford kept his attention on the mage.

"You told us you're from a different world, if I recall correctly?" he asked.

"That is correct." Actually, he had been surprised that there hadn't been more questions about it before. Both the bard and the witcher seemed to have taken it in stride.

"May I ask how you travelled from one world to the other?" Wilford leaned forward, all ear. Finsternis felt that twang of unease again. Nothing as specific as a mage sense warning, not even something as strong as the wrongness of the approaching storm the day before.

"I follow the paths of magic. It leads me, I follow. Sometimes it brings me to places where I am needed. Sometimes to places where I can learn. This time, it brought me here."

"Magic leads you?" Wilford asked. "How does that work? Is it like a feeling? Turn left here, turn right there?"

"Rarely as specific as that," Finsternis replied. "Sometimes it's a subtle sense, hardly more than an impulse. Sometimes it can be very driving indeed. It's… maybe not all that different from what happens when a bird migrates. There are signals, but most of them the bird itself cannot even perceive. It just knows the days are getting shorter, colder… that builds up for awhile, but then, at some point, at some unknown signal, it just flies off." He shrugged. "Sometimes I do feel like that bird," he muttered, more to himself. "Just missing the signals… or at least some of them."

"But how?" Wilford insisted, without paying any apparent attention to the mage's musings. "Do you open a portal? Do you use something else? Are there ways which lead from world to world?"

Finsternis was surprised by the man's sudden insistence. "I use 'something else'," he answered reluctantly. "What that 'something else' is, I would like to keep for myself, for now. Or, maybe…" He tilted his head. "While we're talking about earlier subjects, you mentioned that the people who hired you are not human. Now would you like to share with us just what they are?"

Wilford shook his head. "No… No."

Finsternis smiled thinly. "Then I thank you for a lovely meal. If you have a place for me where I can sleep… I'm quite tired."

"You can sleep in here, if you move some furniture to the side… Or in the stable, if you like," Wilford said reluctantly.

Finsternis gave a nod. "The stable will do me fine. Goodnight then. Until tomorrow." He rose stiffly and walked out.

Things didn't add up. Things didn't add up. Or was that paranoid thinking? Finsternis tossed on the blanket he had placed on the hay and tried to make sense of it all. The whole 'nice elderly couple with grown kids' act. (Was there no spare bedroom to put their guests in? Or did Wilford want to reserve that one for Geralt and Jaskier? He somehow doubted it. Or had the children always slept in their parent's room? Was that a custom here? He didn't know this world well enough. Insufficient information. Insufficient factors to make up the equation. Things didn't add up.

He was too tired to put everything straight, to make a neat summary of the facts he had at his disposal. Witchers. Sorcerers. The Pearl. Non-human sentient races.

Maybe he could make sense of it tomorrow.

For now he tossed and turned until the turmoil in his head finally quieted down enough for him to sleep. And maybe dream.

Was there even a moment where waking ended and dreaming began? Memories of the past few days danced round and round in a mad circle. The priest, screaming and ranting his hatred for mages, the angry red waves competing with the red knot above the burned-out husk of his temple. Or was the one fed by the other? The face of lightning, staring at him in shock. He saw it again in his mind's eye, and it seemed to him that she was saying something, talking to him, but he couldn't hear her over the deafening roar of thunder. He saw the frayed red string touching him here, in the stable, and heard that whispering voice beckoning him: _I will wait for you…_

The red strand was gone by the time he came here to sleep, earlier. As far as he could tell, most of them had dissolved altogether, but a few still lingered. Maybe one was touching him at this very moment, influencing his thoughts/feeding his dreams.

_Am I dreaming?_

And then there was the pearl. Mustn't forget the pearl. Pearl of Worlds, Pearl of dreams. Was that why he had such a hard time distinguishing the one from the other, waking from dreaming, truth from fantasy? Was all of this a dream, the damaged city, the screaming priest, the couple disappearing from the kitchen? Was he in reality still standing in that narrow crack in the cave, staring into the pearl, entranced?

He shifted in the hay, stretched his bad leg as far as it could and felt a stab of pain. Reassuring, in a way. A dream would have to be really immersing if this pain wasn't enough to snap him out of it. So, for now, let's operate on the assumption that this was not a dream…

And with that thought, he really fell asleep.

He surrendered willingly to the darkness. A few moments or a few hours of not having to think, not having to feel… The darkness and quiet were bliss.

Somewhere in that darkness he heard those voices again, just at the threshold of hearing. Or at the edge of his dreams. He drifted closer, or the voices did, until he heard them clearly.

"You think too much." Wilford's words, but spoken by the male voice. Definitely not Wilford's voice, which was soft and slightly tremulous. This voice was deeper, warmer.

"You see much." That was the woman's voice. It reminded Finsternis that he had never heard Marthia speak, not once. There was probably a very simple explanation for it. But maybe there wasn't.

"You see much what is hidden," the woman said.

"Yet there is much that remains," the man added.

Until now, he hadn't spoken to either of them until they asked him a question. Now, for the first time, his thoughts were finally transformed to words. "Who are you?"

"I am me." The woman's voice sounded vaguely surprised.

"And I am me." The man's voice was more decisive.

"Are you Wilford? Are you Marthia?"

"Who is Wilford? Who is Marthia?" The two voices spoke in unison.

"The people who hired the witcher. Who requested a mage to come along." He projected their mage sense images.

"Human names," the woman said.

"Human faces," the man said. "You see much, mage, but still more is hidden from your sight."

"We have asked you before," the woman took over again. "What brings you here? Why did you decide to come? Was it just the troubadour's persuasion? Your distant interest in the witcher? What was it?" 

"Maybe it was the call of the Pearl of Worlds," Finsternis said tiredly. "Maybe it was the call of the sorceress. Maybe something else. I don't know. I told you before, I follow the paths of magic. It leads and I follow."

"Why?" the woman asked.

"You have likened yourself to a migrating bird," the man added. "Do you not have control over your own actions, then? Are you being forced to follow where those paths lead you?'

Finsternis sighed. Even in his dream he was weary beyond belief. "No. I am not being led. I follow because I choose to. Why?" He just knew they were going to ask him next. "Because it gives me satisfaction. Because it gives me a purpose. Because it brings me to strange new worlds, broadens my horizons…" He sighed. "Because… I don't know. I have a feeling I might encounter something, at some point, that needs me… or maybe I need it. I don't know."

"Very well," the woman said. "Continue with your explorations, Finsternis Zwartén. We will continue to watch you with interest." Once again their presences disappeared.

There were no more dreams for the rest of the night.


	5. Into the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they travel through the mountains to their destination, Wilford gets increasingly nervous. An encounter with kobolds almost ends in disaster.

The following morning the red shreds of the storm had disappeared. Even the red knot over the remains of the temple was nearly gone, just a few tangled threads remained and even they would be gone soon. The square was empty this morning, to Finsternis' vast relief.

They had departed early, eaten breakfast in the dim light of dawn. By the time they reached the gates, the sun had barely cleared the horizon and filled the damaged city with golden light.

"Onto the last leg of our journey!" Wilford said, cheerfully. "We'll have one last night on the road before we reach our destination. From here on there won't be any inns. Few people travel this way."

"How far can we ride?" Finsternis asked. If they were truly going into the mountains, there might come a time when they would be unable to continue on horseback. There were no passes that he could see from here.

"At least until tonight," Wilford said. "Depending on the weather and the condition of the road, maybe a ways tomorrow. Will that be a problem?"

Finsternis shrugged. "We'll see." That, too, depended on several factors. For now, no real need to worry about it.

The day passed uneventful. There were no sudden storms, and once they had left the city behind the damage to the road here was minimal. The road climbed deceptively quickly: at one point Finsternis looked back and saw the small city of Birgingen spread out behind and below them, like a small scale model or a large toy.

The weather continued to be nice, though it was colder here than it had been lower down. The wind came from the mountains and brought with them whispers of winter, snow and ice. Down in the hills it was warm, but mountains had a climate of their own. Finsternis had already seen the white of at least one glacier.

Today there was very little conversation between the travellers. Jaskier kept up his usual stream of stories and songs, and Finsternis kept his promise by teaching him the saga he had told before. Wilford, as usual, lead the way with Marthia at his side. He only spoke now and then, to give direction or point out the occasional landmark. And when the road became too narrow for them to ride side by side, Marthia held her horse back so that Wilford could ride ahead. Geralt did the same, so that he was the last rider. He hadn't spoken at all. Occasionally he glanced back.

The road curved around the mountain, so that Birgingen was hidden from view. To their left, the mountain rose steeply, dark rock jutting up and up. There was a lower mountain on their right side, but Finsternis could see that up ahead the distance between the two widened. Their road – little more than a broad path by now – would follow the left mountain. Finsternis eyed the path with a dubious eye. Was it his imagination, or-?

Wilford halted and waited until the others were close. "I think there have been some changes since I last came up here. The road is narrower than I expected. I think it's best if we walk for a bit." He jumped down from his horse and helped Marthia down in turn.

Finsternis sighed. Not imagination, then. Either rain from the storm's outskirts or earlier bad weather had caused a shift which had narrowed the path ahead. He swung his good leg over the saddle and slid down, carefully timing his landing. It didn't surprise him to see that Geralt was the last one to dismount, once again with a backward glance.

He began to ask: "Something-" but the witcher interrupted him with a curt headshake. Finsternis hesitated briefly, then continued: "…I hope we won't have to walk for long." He saw Jaskier raise his eyebrows, Geralt flicking his head ever so slightly back. Jaskier's expressive face lit up in understanding.

As they followed Wilford and Marthia along the narrowing path, Finsternis tried to sense around. But the mountains were interfering. There was something strange here, odd flows of energy which sometimes seemed to emanate from the stones, sometimes from the air. He could only penetrate the top layer of the road and a few inches of the nearby mountain with his mage sense, beyond that it became a blank. It made the rock feel less than real under his feet, insubstantial, as if it could dissolve any moment and throw him in the ravine which had opened up to their right. Coupled with the strain on his bad leg, it made keeping his balance even harder. He held on firmly to the reins with one hand and gripped his staff tightly with the other, hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The wild swirls of the strange energy flows made him dizzy.

Gradually the gap between him and Geralt behind him, and the others up ahead, widened. He saw Jaskier turn to him and shout something, but the combination of wind and dizziness made the words impossible to hear. He turned to look at Geralt, stumbled, and if Dancer hadn't been steady on her legs he might've fallen or gone over the edge. As it was, he quickly recovered his balance, though it put more strain on his leg than he liked.

"I think he's telling us to hurry," Geralt shouted over the rising wind.

Finsternis grimaced. "Trying."

They caught up with the others after the next bend. There Wilford, Marthia and Jaskier stood in front of another landslide, which had taken out the road ahead. Part was probably carried away down, the rest was buried under loose stones, larger rocks and mud. The whole looked extremely unstable.

Geralt looked at the landslide, glanced back and said: "Fuck."

"For once I couldn't agree more," Jaskier replied. "I take it there's no way to get past this?"

"Maybe with magic…" Wilford said, casting an uncertain look at the mage.

Finsternis shook his head. "There is no way I can stabilise this long enough for us to cross. Even without the horses. There's too much of it. It's too unstable. I can't risk it." Certainly not with the aberrant way his mage sense behaved, the curious interference.

"It'll mean a detour that will take us hours," Wilford sounded unhappy.

"It means more than that," Geralt said sharply. He drew his sword with a soft, smooth whisper.

Wilford closed his eyes and began to tremble. "Oh, no." Marthia clutched him tightly.

A group of people rounded the corner of the path, effectively blocking their way. They were smaller than the humans, Finsternis noted with interest, with a reddish skin, pointy ears and a face like a dog. They were armed, but at least they didn't ran screaming at the group of travellers. That was a hopeful start. The situation might still devolve into violence, but at least it didn't start there.

"What are these?" Finsternis asked.

"Our trackers," Geralt answered. He took a step forward, positioning himself between the new arrivals and the others.

"Kobolds, I think," Jaskier added, noticing the expression on Finsternis' face.

"Thank you."

Geralt took another step forward. The nearest kobold raised his club. "No closer!" it hissed.

"Stand aside," the witcher said curtly. "Our business is not with you."

"But ours is with you," the kobold said. "This is our territory. Our home. You are not welcome."

"The sooner you let us pass, the quicker we'll be out of your territory." The witcher smiled a smile which had little humour in it.

The leader of the kobolds shook his head. "No," he said. "Our business is with you. We won't let you leave."

Geralt sighed. "You really want to do this?" He raised his sword. "Alright."

 _And here we go._ Finsternis sighed. Despite the weird interference, it was easy to see the colour of the kobold's energies shift to a darker, more reddish tint. He took a few limping steps forward until he stood near the witcher, though not near enough to interfere with the man's swordplay. Pain and nausea fell away as he called up his magic.

The kobold leader began to run, brandishing his club. Two of the others followed, a few in the back raised crossbows. Those were easiest. Finsternis drew energy from his staff. The thin line which curved and swirled around his staff lit up brightly in response. He pointed with his free hand to the crossbows. One by one the kobolds yelled and dropped their weapons.

Meanwhile, the first kobold had reached Geralt and swung at him. The witcher twisted easily out of the way of the heavy weapon and struck with his sword. Unlike the kobold, he didn't miss.

The path was narrow here, and Geralt didn't make the mistake of moving towards the next two attackers. Here, he could hold them off easily. The second and third kobold came at him, screaming and cursing in their own language.

Finsternis could only sense the top layer of the path, but that thin layer was enough. A few muttered words and he pointed at the stones. The second kobold slipped and went down. The third one, unfortunately, jumped lightly over him and swung his own weapon. Geralt blocked the strike with his sword, made a complex twirling motion and the club went flying into the abyss. Instead of skewering him on his sword, Geralt grabbed the creature by his collar and swung him against the mountain wall.

The last kobold took off at a run. "Stop him!" Geralt ordered. "Can't allow him to get reinforcements."

The kobold was close to the bend, but before he could clear the corner Finsternis made a sweeping motion with his staff. A narrow ribbon of silver light streamed towards the creature, twisted around his ankles and tightened. The rest of the ribbon wound around the kobold. "He's not going anywhere," Finsternis said. As he released the energy and allowed it to flow back into his staff, all the sensations he had banished earlier came flooding back with a vengeance. The world spun around him.

But he had been through this before, the dip after a magic high, and knew the way out. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, concentrated on the normal senses: the wind which felt chilly against his skin, the solid ground under his feet, the sounds around him.

Right now, the main sound was Geralt's growl. "Speak, kobold. Why did you attack us?"

"You came here at the behest of our enemies!" the kobold spat. "Why prolong the inevitable? Why wait cowering in our holes until you come to flush us out? Rather attack now, while we still stand a chance!"

"That worked out well," Jaskier said cheerfully, walking over to where Finsternis and Geralt stood. Finsternis opened his eyes to see the man standing next to him. He tried for a reassuring smile, but from the expression on Jaskier's face it was probably more a grimace.

He handed the troubadour a bundle of thin rope from one of his belt bags. "Tie up the prisoner, please," he said. "My binding won't last long. Then we'll have to decide what to do with them."

Not much later the remaining kobolds were neatly tied and bundled up. All but their leader had survived. Geralt walked over to where Wilford and his wife were still huddled together, near the landslide which had taken out the road. Finsternis and Jaskier followed at a slower pace.

"So, it's gnomes," the witcher said without preamble.

Wilford nodded. His face was deadly pale. Marthia had her own face buried against Wilford's chest.

"And they want us to wage their war for them?" Geralt pressed on.

Wilford actually began to tremble. "They… they never told me why they wanted you, or the sorcerer."

"Mage," Finsternis muttered, but it was an automatic reply. He was too busy trying to fill in the blanks. "Kobolds and gnomes are enemies?" he quietly asked Jaskier.

"There have been wars fought in the past, I think," Jaskier replied. "But I don't know the details. There's much about the elder races which we don't know. They tend to keep to themselves a lot."

Meanwhile Geralt was still talking. "They must've wanted us badly, though."

Wilford nodded. "They said to get you at all costs."

"Hmm. So, what did they do to frighten you so?"

The trembling got worse. "Please…" Wilford whispered.

"Did they threaten you?" Geralt asked.

Wilford didn't answer.

"Your family, perhaps?"

No answer. A tear spilled from one of his eyes and rolled down his slightly wrinkled cheek.

"Your wife?"

Wilford began to wail. "They took her voice! They have a hold on her! If I don't bring you to them before the time is up, she'll die!" He took hold of Marthia and gently pushed her face up so that the others could see her. She seemed to have aged ten years in the time since the attack began. "See?" Wilford sobbed. "Her time's running out! I had hoped we would reach the gnome enclave tomorrow, but now, with this landslide… I don't know if she can make it."

"I will examine her later," Finsternis said. "Maybe there is something which can be done to slow whatever is happening to her. First we need to get away from here. It's obvious we can't get past this." He sighed. "And before that, we need to decide what to do with our prisoners."

"You can't let them live!" Wilford wailed. "They'll follow us, betray us, slaughter us!"

"You suggest we kill them in cold blood?" Geralt asked, deceptively friendly.

"Isn't that what you do?" Wilford said angrily. "Isn't that why the gnomes wanted to hire you?"

"I will learn why the gnomes want me once I meet them." Geralt replied. "As for this bunch here… I agree with you that we can't just cut them loose. They'll run right back to the rest of their clan and mount another attack on us."

"Or a pre-emptive one on the gnomes, just to make sure," Finsternis added. Geralt gave a curt nod.

"So, what are you waiting for?" Wilford cried. "Kill them already!"

Finsternis plucked his dagger from its sheath and held it out to Wilford. "Go ahead."

Wilford looked from the dagger to the mage's cold face and back. "What… what do you want me to do?" he stammered.

"You want to kill them? Then go and do it."

Wilford recoiled. He looked at Geralt, but saw no help there. Nor on Jaskier's face. "I can't just go and kill them!"

"Why not?" Finsternis asked. "That's what you asked Geralt to do. If it's easy for him, it should be easy for you. Right?"

"No!" Wilford shook his head fiercely. "Killing condemns your soul! Even if it's one of the non-humans, it'll still leave a mark!"

"Ah." Finsternis' voice grew colder still. "So it's alright to have others do the killing for you? Have them damage their soul instead of yours?"

"It's well known witchers don't have a soul!" Wilford spat with sudden vehemence. Finsternis felt Geralt stiffen.

"And mages?" Finsternis continued. "Do they have a soul? Or are we as soulless as our witcher friend here?"

Wilford bit his lip. "I… I…" Then he cried, abruptly: "Kill them, toss them into the ravine, cut them loose! I don't care! I just want to deliver you to the gnomes and be done with you all!" He looked away and hugged his wife again. In a broken whisper, he added: "Before it's too late…"

Finsternis sighed and sheathed his dagger. He felt cold and empty – maybe not quite soulless, but certainly close to it. "Your world, your call," he said to Geralt.

Geralt looked the way Finsternis felt. He gave a slow nod and walked back to the kobolds. "I will leave you here, tied as you are," he said. "Someone of your people is bound to come up here and find you."

The kobold he had slammed into the wall earlier looked up. "Why not kill us now and have done with it?" he said, defeated. "The gnomes will ask you to kill us anyway."

"Maybe they will, maybe they won't," the witcher replied. "But if you must remember one thing from this encounter, let it be this, kobold. I do not kill just because I'm asked." With that remark, he sheathed his sword, turned on his heel and walked away.

The group carefully manoeuvred their horses past the tied kobolds and descended, backtracking until Wilford found another route to their destination. This time, it wasn't Finsternis' slow pace which determined their travelling speed, but Marthia. At the point where the path broadened enough to ride, Wilford lifted her on her horse and climbed in the saddle behind her. "Can someone take my horse?"

"Jaskier," Geralt ordered.

"Sure." The bard patted Wilford's horse on the neck and jumped nimbly in the saddle. "I'll take good care of him."

They rode a bit further to the point where the road split. Wilford eyed the other branch with distaste. "We'll be lucky if we get there tomorrow afternoon," he muttered. "This way is a lot steeper and narrower. It'll involve a lot more walking."

"Before we go there, let me examine your wife," Finsternis suggested.

Wilford looked as if the last thing he desired was for a mage to examine her, but his desire to help Marthia outweighed his distaste. "Alright." He helped Marthia down. She appeared to have aged again in those few hours. Now she looked like an older granny, no longer like a woman of a healthy middle age.

Finsternis placed one of his thin blankets on the ground. "Put her on there." He knelt, stiffly, almost lost his balance, used his staff to steady himself. Then he drew power from his staff and concentrated.

He focused on the magic itself, not on mage sense or interfering strands of unknown magic, strange influences. Just that silver song which he knew of old, he let it flow through him and fill him. Then he extended his hand and held it above Marthia's head, moved it slowly down her body.

Her life spark seen with mage sense, strange, diminished, bland, like Wilford's. A stark contrast to the multicoloured spectrum which was Jaskier, the complicated knot which was Geralt. He looked closer now. Her life spark was bent in upon itself, drawing deeper and deeper… a knot with a sink hole. He knew he would have to plug that hole in order to stop all the life energy draining out. But that knot was a trap. A trap designed to catch – who? A mage? Anyone who attempted to help her and who hadn't placed the spell itself, it seemed. He might be able to unravel the knot, the spell itself, given enough time.

There wasn't enough time.

"There's only one thing I can do," he said. He heard his own voice dimly, from far away. "I can't heal her, the only one who can is the one who put this on her. But I can delay the effects. A transfer of life energy." He looked up at the others. "Any volunteers?"

"Why can't you do it yourself?" Wilford asked querulously.

Finsternis sighed wearily. "I told you a few days ago that magic has transformed me, at one point. My very life essence consists partially of magic. Combine that with the spell which is holding her and the effects will at best be a waste of effort. At worst… worse. I cannot do it."

"Me," Geralt said curtly.

Wilford jumped. "But, you…" his voice trailed off. He looked from the witcher to Jaskier. "Can't he-?"

"Actually, Geralt is the best option from what I can see," Finsternis said distantly.

"But he's a-" Wilford broke off.

"Do you want your wife to live or not?" Geralt said brusquely. Wilford just nodded weakly.

"Thank you," Finsternis said. "Please sit down and hold my staff."

"I'd rather stand."

"Then please be so kind not to fall on me or Marthia."

Geralt cast a glare at Finsternis but sat down and reached out to the staff. The silver line glowed dimly. Quietly, he asked: "What will this do to me?"

"You mean, what will it cost you?" Finsternis asked back, just as quietly.

Geralt gave a minute nod.

"That depends on how much you'll give. You'll either feel tired, very tired, or if you drain overly much, a bit weakened. Nothing a good night's rest can't restore. It certainly won't cost you a day of your life – let alone years." He looked around. "Unless we can find a good shelter for the night, I won't hold out for that good night's rest, though," he added. "So I'd be careful what you give. You can withdraw at any moment, just by releasing the staff."

Without another word, the witcher closed his hand around the staff. The light brightened for a moment, then dimmed again.

Finsternis felt the flow of energy from Geralt into the staff, from the staff through him. He had been right, the witcher was by far the best choice for this. He contained a tremendous amount of life force, a veritable ocean. What Finsternis would take, what Marthia would need, would be a thimble full by comparison.

Still, he spun the flow out slowly, guiding it carefully to its destination. No need to undue weaken the witcher, no need at all to overload Marthia with an excess of energy. It streamed gently from Finsternis' hand into Marthia's body.

As time passed, the new wrinkles in Marthia's face slowly receded or disappeared altogether, her eyes grew brighter. Finally, Geralt withdrew his hand. "Rise slowly," Finsternis cautioned. He helped Marthia to sit up. "How do you feel?" he asked.

She studied him, her eyes roved over his face. Her own eyes were beautiful, Finsternis saw: light brown with tiny flecks of green and gold, sunlight in a grove. Then she smiled, and in that smile, in those eyes, Finsternis could see the youth she had been. "No need to thank me," he said gently. "Geralt was the one who shared his life with you."

Geralt helped her to her feet. She clung to Wilford, but gave the witcher the same radiant smile. It was not hard to see why Wilford had fallen in love with her.

"It's alright," the witcher said gruffly. "Let's ride. We have a lot of time to make up."

This time it was Finsternis who hung back a bit, scanning up and around. He wasn't keeping an eye on possible followers, whether they were kobolds or others – he knew Geralt was still doing that. Instead, he was looking at the clouds which were gathering above them. There was nothing unnatural about that this time. Weather often shifted rapidly in the mountains, especially on the rain shadow side. Judging by the fertile valley through which they had travelled to reach the outskirts of Tir Tochair, they were definitely on that side. And as happened so often in the mountains, a day which started out brightly could turn to bad weather in the afternoon. It seemed this day was one of those.

He spurred on his horse until he rode next to Wilford – a narrow squeeze, and something which would become impossible again soon enough. "Do you know a place where we can shelter nearby?"

Wilford shook his head. He, too, had been watching the clouds. "No. We'll just have to keep pushing and hope for the best."

"Please don't forget to prepare for the worst," Finsternis replied. "I don't think we're high enough for snow, right?"

"I don't travel that often in the mountains," Wilford said uneasily. "But I don't think so. Thunderstorms, on the other hand…"

"I know." During the years where he studied to become a mage, Finsternis had lived in the mountains as well. A different mountain range on a different world. But there were certain things mountain ranges had in common, and weather patterns were one of them. Thank the stars, the weird magic system here didn't interfere with the weather as far as he could tell. But regardless, thunderstorms in mountains were bad.

"We'll just have to hurry," Wilford said.

"Yeah." Except for the fact that soon enough they wouldn't be able to continue on horseback, and neither Marthia nor he were in the condition for an extended climb.

Still, they pressed on as fast as they could, and they continued to ride beyond the point where it was safe. By that time, the distant rumble of thunder could be heard from beyond the next mountain ridge.

"I don't like this," Jaskier said, looking around uneasily.

"I agree. But we'll have to keep going until we find at least some kind of shelter." Finsternis also kept looking around, no longer paying attention to the clouds but trying to find anything that might give them protection.

Suddenly a lightning strike set the whole mountain ridge in front and to their right on fire. The horses whinnied and Wilford's horse actually bucked before he could get it under control. "That's it, everybody dismount," he said, shakily.

"That bit about lightning conductors… it might be a good idea to put that into practice now," Geralt said dryly.

Finsternis lifted an eyebrow. "You heard that? Hmm. Unfortunately, I can't use one here – not while I'm holding it. And certainly not while we're on the move."

Thunder rolled again, closer now, and dark clouds piled over the mountain range and into the valley which separated them from it.

"We're in for it now," Wilford muttered and scrambled up the path as fast as he could. The first fat drops began to fall and the air around them felt sticky. Finsternis shivered. These were bad signs.

Another lighting flash, and again the lightning danced across the ridge. The next strike might just as easily bounce between that ridge and the side they were on. Fortunately, they were nowhere near a peak, but a bolt still could strike close to them.

"I see an overhang!" Finsternis shouted over the roar of thunder. He pointed ahead. "It's not much of a shelter, but I think it's the best we can get! Hurry!"

Wilford shook his head. "No! We need to press on!"

"That's suicide!" Finsternis protested. "That storm is getting closer and closer. This mountain side will be next!"

"We need to get to the gnomes!" Wilford shouted. "Or Marthia-"

"If we get hit by lightning, none of us will make it there!" Finsternis said forcefully. "And we have at least a bit of shelter now. I don't want to have to bivouac in the open!"

It was Marthia who resolved the dilemma, simply by sagging to the ground. Wilford cried: "Marthia!" and ran to her. "Mage! I can't wake her!"

Geralt lifted her up like a child and cradled her to his chest, protecting her from the rain as much as he could. "To that overhang," he ordered. "We'll camp there."

They hurried to the overhang as fast as they could. In between Geralt who had to carry Marthia, Wilford who was in a state of near panic and Finsternis who dragged himself on by sheer determination through the steadying worsening rain, that wasn't fast as all.

Once they reached that scant shelter, Finsternis placed one of his blankets on the ground again, in the place which was least affected by wind and rain. Geralt carefully put Marthia down.

"You've got to examine her again!" Wilford cried, jumping up and down in front of Finsternis. He squeezed his fists, open and close, open and close, as if he couldn't choose between wanting to grab the mage and shake him and his revulsion of having to touch him. "You've got to do that life force thing again!"

"Shut up," Finsternis said, his icy voice cutting through the man's panic like a knife. "She doesn't require another transfusion. What she needs most is rest. Take your blankets and lie down next to her. Keep her warm."

Wilford opened his mouth to protest, but Jaskier, ebullient Jaskier, gentle Jaskier slung his arm over Wilford's thin shoulders and guided him away. "He really wants to help her, you know. I know how you feel. But you can help her. Just be there for her. Hold her." He smiled. "That's what you want most, isn't it?" He kept up his reassuring prattle as he helped Wilford gather the blankets and tucked them in gently once he lay down next to Marthia. She sighed when she felt him, snuggled closer and her uneasy movements ceased.

Finsternis leaned heavily on his staff. "We'll need heat," he muttered. "And something to shield us from the rain." He shivered. Water from the torrent dripped from his wet hair and his cloak. "I can provide one, but not both. Not if I want to be fit in any way to travel tomorrow," he added in a mutter.

"I can provide heat," the witcher said. "You see to the shielding. Jaskier, I'm going to need some stones." While Geralt and Jaskier looked for stones and rearranged them into a pattern, Finsternis used his staff to drag a line around the small party which followed the contours of the overhang. The line glowed a dim silver. When Finsternis completed the arch, he planted the staff in the middle of the line and activated it. A sheet of silver sprung up, reaching from the glowing line to the overhang above. Immediately it dimmed again, but the rain and wind suddenly fell away.

"Stand clear!" Geralt warned behind him. Finsternis looked around. Stones had been arranged into a circle, with a larger, flat one in the middle. Finsternis watched, intrigued despite his immense fatigue, as the witcher drew a sign in the air with his fingers. Flames sprung from his hand. He directed it at the middle stone and held it until the stone began to glow.

Finsternis nodded approvingly. "Interesting technique." He realised how tired he really was when he heard himself slur the words. "I think…" he said distantly, "I think I need to sit down." But it appeared his body had taken care of that task all by itself.

He thought he heard Jaskier mutter, just before he closed his eyes and surrendered to the dark for awhile, something along the lines of "You have more in common with that witcher than your hair alone." And, just at the edge of his awareness, Geralt's grunted "Hm."

While he slept, the storm reached their side of the valley and peppered their mountainside with lightning strikes. The rain fell in streams, obscuring the mountain on the other side of the valley while it lasted. Even the thunder failed to rouse him.

As the day wore on and night fell, the storm finally crossed their mountain and drifted away, the rain ceased, only the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance was audible for awhile. Then even that faded. By the time Gerald and Jaskier went to sleep, the clouds began to dissipate and the first stars became visible. Outside the shield, the wind died down and the temperature fell sharply. But in their little corner under the overhang, the stone Geralt had heated earlier still glowed faintly, spreading warmth.

It was way past midnight when Finsternis woke up. For a moment he was disoriented, then memories began to fall back into place and he remembered where he was again. He was still tired, but no longer sleepy – a nasty combination if ever there was one. His leg throbbed dully, the ache which meant that as soon as he'd get up it would really start to hurt. Another discomfort which couldn't be helped.

Something had woken him. But what? It wasn't the pain. It wasn't anything magical either, there was nothing like he had found in the cave, nothing which tugged at his attention. But what then?

He sat up and looked around. Geralt's stone had stopped glowing and the light of the stars was too faint to see by. There was no moon. But at a softly whispered word the shield began to glow faintly, just bright enough to see by. There, in one corner, the four horses were huddled together. Close to the fire stone were the slender shape of Jaskier and the bulkier one which was Geralt. Near the wall was the shadow of Wilford, with Marthia between him and the wall… Or was she?

There was a dark shadow near the place where the shield met the wall, not near the horses but on the other side, where the path continued. Finsternis was fairly certain that shadow shouldn't be there. He frowned and reached for his staff.

Now things began to fall into place. The thing which had woken him was someone working on his shield, weakening it. Since he had placed the magic, he had felt the dull echo of that work, until it finally penetrated the threshold of his awareness. "What the..." he muttered, as he scrambled to his feet. "Marthia?" He tightened his cloak around him and took the first stumbling steps towards the shadow in the corner.

No answer. But the scrambling at the shield became more frantic, more forceful. Finsternis muttered a curse and changed his target. The shield, it only would take him two steps to reach the shield-

But before he could take those steps and touch it, there came one final flash of silver and the shield disappeared. The shadow which was Marthia disappeared into the darkness.

Finsternis cursed again and began to hurry after her, though 'hurry' was a grand word for how he moved – tired, stiff and sore. But even in his fatigue he noted another odd thing. Jaskier slept on, which in itself wasn't surprising since the man seemed to have the amazing ability to fall asleep everywhere and wake a few hours later, bright and eager. So did Wilford, but even that wasn't surprising. Last day had been full of emotion for him, faced with the very real possibility that he would soon lose his wife.

But Geralt was also sleeping, a deep sleep. And that was very much unlike the witcher, even taken into account that he had donated quite a bit of life energy to Marthia. Something which had created a temporary bond between them… Finsternis' mouth suddenly went dry. "What have you done, Marthia," he whispered, horrified, and began to push onward with a greater effort. He had to keep up with her, somehow, come what may.

As the shield fell, the cold hit him like a slap in the face. He was glad he'd paused long enough to grab his cloak. Marthia, he noticed, didn't have one. Maybe the cold would slow her down. He hobbled after her, following the narrow path. She was still visible as a dim shadow in the faint light of the alien stars. How could she be so confoundedly fast?

His mind was in overdrive as he tried to keep up. What had she done to the witcher? Had she somehow managed to continue to drain him? How? Who knew what riddles she was hiding in that odd, weak mage sense light of her? It had always felt off to him, but he had never really encountered enough people on this world to establish a life sense baseline, as it were – the only time he had seen more people than just a chance encounter on the road had been in the inn where he'd first met them, and later in Birgingen. He hadn't paid more attention to mage sense than usual in the inn, and in the city he'd closed it off as much as possible because of all the interference from the storm.

Was her dull light, and Wilford's, the norm and was Jaskier, the bright lantern, the exception? Or was it the other way around? Was there a different reason for her dimness? The effect of the gnome spell, perhaps? Had a similar spell been placed on Wilford?

Still too many questions, still not enough answers. He focused on his mage sight, used it as a distraction for the weariness and the pain which slowed him down even further. Still the weird effects of the mountains, those odd wavering lines which shimmered and moved and made everything look distorted or feel unreal. Seen through it, Marthia's sense looked stranger still: still oddly dull, but whenever one of those shimmers touched her she seemed to light up briefly, like a tiny beacon in the night. It made keeping track of her easier, at least, even though the distance between them increased more and more.

Suddenly, Marthia stopped. Then she resumed moving – up. Stars have mercy, she was climbing. In the middle of the night. Without any rope or other means of securing herself. While the wall was still wet from the earlier rain, and maybe frosted over here and there. Finsternis wasted some precious breath on a curse and limped on until he reached the point where her climb began.

The path ended here, she had no other choice but up. With regular sight he could no longer see her against the dark wall, but mage sight revealed a glowing dot high up. If he ever wanted to see where she was going, he needed to follow.

How fortunate that he had lived in the mountains for years. How fortunate that one of his hobbies during that time had been climbing. However, that had been decades ago, and he had full use of all limbs. But he was in a fair condition still, and what his bad leg lacked in strength, his arms had gained. Hopefully it was enough.

It would have to be enough.

He placed his staff against the stone, reached out for the first handhold, and began to climb. It went slow at first, but soon the old habits asserted themselves and he picked out the hand- and footholds with greater ease. He found he fell into a rhythm, searching for the next handhold, the next, the next. He discovered that given enough momentum, he could use his bad leg just long enough to grab the next hold. Soon he forgot about not wearing a rope. This was a good wall, a nice wall, rising almost straight up, no overhang, very few loose rocks, and plenty of grip. For the first time, he began to catch up with the tiny dot above him.

"Marthia!" he shouted. "Wait!"

He didn't expect an answer – after all, he hadn't heard her speak since he'd met her – and he didn't get one. But did she hesitate, just for a moment?

"Wait!" he shouted again. "Whatever it is you're doing, I can help you! Marthia!"

The light didn't flicker, but suddenly he heard a rattling sound, coming closer. Stones! Was she really kicking or throwing stones at him? He pressed himself as close to the wall as he could and tucked in his head. The stone clattered past him and continued down.

"Star's blood," he muttered and looked for a handhold which would take him out of range of other stones. He hadn't made the error of climbing directly under her, precisely to avoid the accidental falling stone, so the one which just passed him had been deliberately aimed.

As he reached for the next hold he heard more rattling. This was the worst possible timing; his position was far from stable and he couldn't press himself against the wall until he had secured himself. His hand reached the next hold, failed to secure it. And at that moment the stone hit his head. The pain was immediate, sharp and blinding, and warm blood began to flow. He felt his foot slip, for a moment he remained dangling against the wall, only holding on with one hand. Before he could regain his footing, the next stone hit, and he tumbled backwards into the void.

There was no time to scream. There wasn't time to do anything. High above him, the faint light which was Marthia became one of the alien stars. Then even those disappeared.


	6. Kobolds and Gnomes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finsternis wakes up after his fall and encounters gnomes. They try to recruit him for their problem. Finsternis promises he'll help, though it's maybe not quite what the gnomes had in mind.

Finsternis came to, and that was more than he expected. But the way up was long.

The first thing he heard were voices. Faint voices, talking in the distance. He couldn't make out what they were saying and he didn't have the energy to try.

Then another voice, closer by, a male voice with an odd accent. "He's waking up." And closer still: "Don't try to move."

He wasn't planning to. His head was throbbing and everything around him seemed faint and fuzzy. The much sharper pain in his leg felt only too familiar. Other than that, everything else seemed to be more or less intact. And he was lying on something soft. Around him he felt the solid comfort of stone, lots of stone. A cave, then, and apparently deep underground. He slowly tried to take stock of other sensations, though that was hard because his thoughts kept wanting to drift away.

He opened his eyes, blinked, closed them again. There wasn't much light in the cave, but even that hurt. The next time he opened his eyes only to slits. The figure he saw swam in and out of focus, but he could tell enough to see that it was not human. Considerably smaller than a human, about the size of the kobolds which had attacked them earlier. But this one was more slender than the kobolds had been, and his face was more human than dog-like, though he had an exceptionally long nose. "How do you feel?"

"Dizzy." Finsternis heard himself slur the word. Oh yes, that had to be a concussion. Still, only a concussion and some bruises, or maybe another fracture, after that fall? Exceptionally lucky, or had something else...? Again, the thought fizzled out before he could really focus on it. "Marthia?" he said, or tried to say.

"Don't strain yourself. Rest." The figure disappeared. Finsternis closed his eyes again and tried to do as he was told.

Footsteps, mere whispers of soft leather against hard rock, but every footstep felt like the beating of a drum. A voice close by. "Wake up."

He peeled his eyes open again. Ow. Bright light hurt. "'m awake."

A hand lifted his head, pressed something against his lips. "Drink." The movement caused fireworks to go off in his head, bright flashes of light and loud bangs and all. He felt the sudden urge to vomit and gagged. Nothing came out. Again, something cold against his lips. "Drink." He drank. The hand carefully lowered his head again.

The drink had an odd taste, not unpleasant. After awhile – he had no idea how long, time was flexible now – he began to feel a pleasant sense of detachment. The voices were still talking, but they no longer snagged at his awareness. The pain was still present, but ceased to be important.

The non-human face appeared again. Or was this a different one? "Feel better now, yes?"

Nodding was still a bad idea. "Yes."

"So you sorcerer, yes? Came with friends to help gnomes? Yes?"

"Mage," Finsternis mumbled automatically. "Yes. Where are my… friends?"

"Safe," the gnome said, nodding. "Yes. But not here. Now please, we need talk. We need help. Help fight kobolds. You help. Yes?"

This time Finsternis didn't reply right away. He tried to force his aching, dulled mind to work. "Why?" he asked at last.

"Why what? Kobolds fight. Gnomes die. We need help. Ask for help. Sorcerer, mage, witcher. You help. You fight. We no die. Yay! Yes?"

Finsternis tried to think. His thoughts were still fuzzy and it was hard to focus. Kobolds, gnomes… There had been something about kobolds, earlier. His mind strained for the memory but it eluded him. "I'm prepared to help, yes," Finsternis said slowly, testing each thought one word at a time. "Help, not fight."

"Why not fight?" the gnome insisted. "Kobolds fight! We die! You help, yes?"

Finsternis lifted a hand which seemed to weigh a ton. "Hold," he mumbled. There was something. A memory. Another creature, screaming. Then speaking in a low voice, broken, defeated. _The gnomes will ask you to kill us anyway_ …

"I want to prevent people dying on either side," he said, letting the hand drop back. "Both you and the kobolds."

"No, no!" the gnome screamed. "Kobolds kill US! You kill kobolds, we no longer die! You and witcher friend. Other white-hair. Help us. Yes!"

"No!" Finsternis said forcefully, though it promptly set off the fireworks in his head again despite the soothing drink. "No killing until I've heard both sides of the story. I've heard yours now. I'll need to talk with the kobolds next. No killing until then."

The gnome began to wail. "No kill! No help! Gnomes die! All die!"

Another gnome came and slung a thin arm over the first one. "Maybe the other white-hair will help, if we can find," he said soothingly. "Come, come away." He lead the first one away, cast a last look over his shoulder to the wounded mage. "Sleep," he said quietly. "We'll talk later. Sleep first."

Finsternis slept.

"Surprised?"

The voice from his earlier dream. This was the woman, the soft, gentle voice.

"Not really, no." That was the other voice. Was there no rest for him, even in sleep? The voice continued: "I didn't think it would be that easy. Still, it'll be interesting to see what happens next, eh?"

"Yes. Cut off from all he knows, injured, alone… Yes."

"He shows remarkable resilience."

"He might resemble the witcher in more ways than the obvious one, yes."

"Differences, too. Huge differences."

"Quite. I do wonder how he would've turned out if he had been allowed to grow up here…"

"That was never in our hands."

"More's the pity."

The voices faded and he was finally alone again. Awareness faded and there were no more dreams, not that he recalled. However, just before he woke up there was the memory of that other face, the face he'd seen twice before, and the whispered words: _Come find me. I will wait for you…_

"Tell me more about your people." It was later, though between the eternal dark of the cave and his concussion he had lost all sense of time. How long had it been since they used that paltry shelter to hide from the storm? Half a day ago, a full day, longer? Was there still time to help Marthia? He had no idea even where she was. All questions regarding her were met with a stony silence.

But the young gnome who sat next to his bed and helped him eat (something pale and bland, maybe the gnomish equivalent of porridge?) seemed willing to talk, at least about some subjects. This question, however, seemed to surprise her.

"Talk? About gnomes?" She looked at him with wide eyes.

Finsternis tried to give a reassuring smile. He had no idea how effective it was, lying here propped up by some pillows, with a bandage around his head and most likely a few porridge stains on his shirt. "I'm not from around here. You are the first gnomes I've ever met. So please, tell me."

She shrugged. "Not much to tell. We old race, been here long before others came. Like elves, dwarves… humans. We live here."

"In the mountains? Underground?"

She fed him another spoonful. "Eat. Get stronger. Yes, in mountains. Sometimes underground. Not all the time. We mine. We build. We make."

Finsternis swallowed. His last meal had been a hurried lunch on the road in the mountains, just some dried bread, cheese and a dry sausage. The pounding headache and the nausea every time he moved made eating a war between his stomach and his head, but thus far he'd managed to keep it down. He slowly felt some strength return, bite by tiny bite. "What do you make?" he asked when he could talk again.

"Things," she said, nodding. "Pretty things to wear. Weapons to fight. Tools to make. To craft. We make."

"Ah. Metalwork, smiths, craftsmen?"

The gnome nodded again. "Yes. Make many things. Sometimes go down to city. Trade."

"I understand," Finsternis said. "Now… please, I need to know this. Can you tell me what you know about kobolds?"

She shook her head, shrinking away from him. "No. No kobolds. No."

"Someone told me gnomes and kobolds have been fighting," Finsternis said, as gently as he could manage. "People have died. They have asked me to help. But I can't help if I…" _am kept in the dark,_ was what he wanted to say, but that was a stupid expression, wasn't it, this deep underground? "If I don't know anything. You've told me about your people. Now please, tell me about kobolds."

"Live deep," she whispered, trembling. "Deep down. They hate. Hate us. Want capture us. Want kill us. We don't want war. We want to live. Make things. Have peace. Just live." She looked at him with large, suddenly hopeful eyes. "You help?"

"I will try to help, I already said so."

"You need more?"

"More information? Yes. What do kobolds look like?"

She gave a description which matched the beings they had encountered earlier in the mountains. Yesterday? She kept feeding him as she talked. Then she asked: "You great fighter? Yes? Many scars."

Finsternis smiled faintly. "Not a great fighter. That'd be one of my companions, the witcher Geralt. I'm a mage. Sorcerer. I fight with magic." Which prompted another question, aside from the obvious 'where are my companions anyway?!' From experience, he knew that question wouldn't be answered either. "Do you use magic? Spells, signs?"

The gnome shook her head. "No. Some use, yes. Not here. City gnomes, a bit. We, no." She smiled back. "No need magic. We make. We craft."

"Thank you." Finsternis sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

"Yes. You rest. Soon you fight." With that, the girl rose and carried the empty bowl away.

Left alone, oddly tired from this simple act of eating but not sleepy, he let his thoughts roam free, trying to make sense of the jumble. Bits and pieces of earlier conversations ran through his head. His own question: "Do you use magic?" and the girl's answer: "No."

Wilford, earlier, about Marthia: "They took her voice! They have a hold on her! If I don't bring you to them before the time is up, she'll die!" Magic? Poison? Of the two, magic was the most likely. He had seen none of the signs of poisoning in Marthia, though on this alien world there might be quite a few he'd never heard of. But that odd dullness of her life sense, that weird masking… that could well be a magic effect. And the trap that lay waiting for whichever magic user would try to stop the life draining away from her. That could never be caused by a poison.

Something was pitting these two groups against each other, kobolds against gnomes. Or someone.

The kobold on the mountain: "You came here at the behest of our enemies! Why wait cowering in our holes until you come to flush us out?"

The gnome: "We need help. Ask for help. Sorcerer, mage, witcher. You help. You fight. We no die."

So they had asked for help, that much was true. Or did they just ask for help now, while he was here?

All the thinking made his head hurt more. And there was still so much that didn't make sense. The more things he learned, the less he seemed to know.

He needed to go. That sense of urgency seemed to come from nowhere and was very acute. He sat up, groaned and clutched his head until the world stopped spinning. Then he looked around for his staff. It wasn't here.

Of course it wasn't. The last time he'd seen it, he had left it at the end of the mountain path where Marthia began her climb. But as always he felt it, the only magical thing in this world which came from his own, whose very fabric was entwined with the magic which ran like fire through his veins. He closed his eyes and extended his hand. The fingers curled around the familiar shape, he felt the answering warmth of the staff in his hand.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, used his free hand to assist the crippled leg. It still hurt, more than it should after resting. Moving made it hurt more. _Please_ , he pleaded silently to the indifferent universe. _Please let it hold my weight…_

It didn't. He spilled unceremoniously onto the cold floor, his leg a sudden ball of pain. Tears spilled from his eyes. He lacked the breath to curse or even to scream. For the moment, the pain was everything.

He was dimly aware of hurried footsteps coming closer, of hands lifting him, supporting him. "What are you doing out of bed?" someone cried.

"I… I had to go," he stammered through white lips, once he was able to speak again.

"Go?" The goblin looked puzzled. "Oh! Go! You shouldn't have gotten out of bed for that. We have chamber pot." He turned to another goblin, the same girl who had helped him earlier. "Go get-" a word he didn't understand, probably the goblin translation for chamber pot. She nodded and ran.

"Now, you, please, stay in bed. It's your leg?" the goblin said.

"Oh, yes." The tears in his eyes were as much from frustration as from the pain. Of all the places he could injure! If it had been his good leg, at least he could've waited until his head cleared enough to heal himself. It would take time, and energy, but not nearly as much as waiting for the fracture to heal of its own. The crippled one, on the other hand… injuries caused by magic couldn't be healed with magic, and what had crippled him had been raw magic. The effects still were everywhere. It meant that even though a fall had caused the injury this time, he could not simply heal that. So whatever the injury was – new fracture, old one breaking again, or maybe a torn ligament – it would have to heal on its own. That would take weeks, if not months. He could hardly stay here the whole time!

The goblin girl came running back, chamber pot in hand. "I help, you go," she said, making shooing movements towards the other goblin. "Pee? Poo? I help."

Finsternis felt a blush begin to rise. "That's… not what I meant." He sighed, frustrated. "I mean, I need to leave. Find my companions. Talk with the kobolds. Only now-" he gestured angrily.

To his surprise, the girl put the chamber pot down and nodded. "Leg bad, yes? Can't walk?"

"Right."

She nodded again. "Yes. I make, I can fix. Help walk. Is…" she turned to the goblin she'd tried to chase away a moment ago. "How you say? Splint, but bends?"

Finsternis closed his eyes. "Brace." He had worn one for over a year before his leg was finally strong enough to make do without one. He'd hated it. It was heavy, clunky, clumsy… but he had to admit, it would do the job for now.

"Yes. I made. Want try?"

Finsternis opened his eyes again. "You made one? For me?"

The girl nodded shyly. "Saw leg. Thought looked bad. Thought might help. Shall I get?"

He looked from her to the other gnome, surprised. The man nodded slightly. "Yes, girl, go get it."

Once again she dashed away and came back a few moments later. What she brought back surprised him. This was not the heavy contraption he'd been expecting. Instead there were just a few slender rods, held together by a few thin straps and what looked like metal filigree.

"Shall I help fix? Yes? Will hurt bit, sorry, when I move."

"Yes, please." Finsternis was fascinated.

She lifted the leg gently, shoved part of the construction under it with a nimble movement and wrapped it around the leg. It did hurt, but not as much as he expected. Using the old brace had always been a pain, in more ways than one. This was nothing short of miraculous.

"Is done," she said, stepping away. "Want try? Is stiff now, won't bend. You stand. I show you how to bend later. Yes?"

The slender rods looked far too weak to offer any support, the straps and the strange filigree looked as if it could unravel any moment. But yet, she seemed to have full confidence in her handywork – and it fit perfectly. "Let's give it a try."

She helped him sit, handed him his staff and offered him her hand. The stone floor was cold under his bare feet. "Stand on good leg first," she said. "Slowly try, what you call? Brace?"

He nodded, both to show her that he'd heard and to indicate he understood. Standing made him feel dizzy and nauseated all over again, but he clutched his staff and held on until the wave passed. Then he slowly shifted his weight. He felt the brace move slightly, then lock. It held. It held.

"Now try take step," the girl ordered, fully confident.

He did so, trying to put the least amount of weight on his bad leg, making it almost a hop. Again, there was pain, but not as much as there should have been. The brace did what it was supposed to do and more. The next step he took was with greater confidence.

The girl smiled up at him. "See? Now, come sit, I show you how to bend brace." She guided him down, took his hand and used it to touch the side of the brace. "Press here and bend. You walk now, push down at each step, straight. Push forward or touch, bend. Yes?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely. So this was what the gones meant with 'make things' and 'craft'.

"You go now? Find friends? Talk with kobolds? Tell them not kill gnomes?" she said, looking at him with wide eyes. "Yes?"

"Yes." He looked down again. "At least, as soon as someone can give me my socks and boots."

All the while that sense of urgency, that sense of needing to leave had never left him, but as the gnome helped him dress and showed him how to take the brace off and put it on again it suddenly became much stronger. No longer _I need to get out of here now_ but _we all need to leave now now NOW!_ He took his staff and pushed himself up. "We need to go," he said hoarsely. "Not just me. You. All of you. Out. Now."

Thank the stars, she didn't ask questions, didn't hesitate. "Yes. We go now." She shouted something in gnome and began to lead him towards the exit at the same time. Finsternis looked around and saw his cloak, grabbed it with his free hand. The girl paused long enough to help fix the clasp, then they hurried on. More gnomes began to move.

Soon it became darker, to the point where Finsternis only saw dark shapes moving. Mage sight provided more information, but not all that much: solid stone under him, around him, above him. The gnomes, seen with mage sense, were definitely different from humans: their lights were smaller but burned brighter, with different colours. He could see the urgency burning in the colours of the girl who guided him through the underground maze which was their home, he saw it changing the colours of others near her.

There was a noise near the entrance. Gnomes who ran ahead of them were suddenly driven back, ran the other way. Finsternis found himself standing in the forefront, facing the noise. The girl – he still hadn't learned her name – cowered behind his back. "Kobolds!" she whispered.

Yet the first person Finsternis saw was not a kobold. In the semidarkness, Finsternis saw only a large, hulking shape, but the mage sight version was unmistakable: that light, that complex whorl. Geralt.

The witcher saw him at the same time and halted. Behind him were more shapes, different lights again, burning with the red of anger, hatred, fire. Kobolds, out for blood.

"No," Finsternis muttered. He drew magic from his staff, recklessly – there was no time to be subtle. He slammed the staff against the ground and created a shield – which, unfortunately, sprang up behind him. Star's blood! But there was no time to change it.

However, at nearly the same time he saw Geralt draw a sign in the air. The symbol glowed in mage sight. A second shield shimmered into being – separating Geralt from the kobolds.

There was an awkward pause as the kobolds realised their target couldn't be reached, as the gnomes realised that they were safe as long as both shields held. The witcher took Finsternis in, from bandaged head to filigree brace around his leg. "Hm. This is unexpected."

"Have you seen Marthia?" Finsternis gasped, leaning on his staff.

"Marthia? I thought she was with you."

"No. She took off in the middle of the night, broke through my shield. I tried to follow her. She climbed straight up, then she kicked stones at me when I climbed after her. I fell and woke up here. How much time has passed?"

"About a day." The witcher frowned. "She didn't take Wilford with her?"

"No. Last time I saw him, he was asleep, just like Jaskier and you."

"Yes." Geralt looked grim. "I sent him back to Birgingen. Then I went to visit the kobolds. They were trying to convince me to attack the gnomes, a kind of pre-emptive strike. When I declined, they decided to take matters into their own hands. It was all I could do to keep up with them. Imagine my surprise when I find you here."

"That doesn't make sense," Finsternis said. "Yesterday they were attacking us because they thought you'd be hired to slaughter them, today they hire you to slaughter gnomes?"

Geralt's laugh had little humour in it. "They seem to think a witcher can be hired by anyone, given enough money. They wanted me to defend them against you."

"Me?" Finsternis made a helpless gesture with his free hand. "Oh yes, clearly."

Geralt shrugged. "You must admit, you are the great unknown. You come out of nowhere, there appears to be magic involved, you join us on this mission for no particular reason whatsoever… It seems it made our kobold friends uneasy."

Finsternis was about to shake his head before recalling that it was still a bad idea. "Someone or something is pitting them against each other, Geralt. The gnomes are terrified of the kobolds. The kobolds seem to think the gnomes finally have enough strength or advantage or whatever to fight back and actually win. Someone is playing them. And us."

"Wilford and Marthia," Geralt said promptly. "Though I'm not sure about Wilford," he added, slower.

"Seems that way. However, we can hardly solve that riddle while we're standing here keeping the two groups apart. We need to convince them that neither side wants to fight."

"Maybe we should stage a mock duel," the witcher suggested.

"Tempting," Finsternis said dryly. "Doubt it would work. The winning side might get a bit too enthusiastic, or the losing side might decide to take revenge."

"Hm." Geralt nodded. "What do you suggest?"

"Go the other way. We officially make peace." He extended his hand.

"I hope you're not going to suggest we hug," Gerald said.

"No! A handshake, or whatever the equivalent is you use."

They shook on it, slowly, making it clear to everyone who could see through the slightly shimmering shields that they were obviously not about to fight.

"Drop the shields?" Finsternis said quietly.

The witcher gave a minute nod. "In three… two… one…"

The shields dropped at the same time. Finsternis extended his staff to bar anyone from running past him. Not that he needed to have bothered, the gnomes backed away as far as they could.

Behind him, Finsternis heard Geralt draw his sword to form a similar barrier. He began to shout something in a language Finsternis couldn't understand. It sounded harsh, barking. Kobold, probably. Finsternis limped back to the gnomes and sought out the man who had talked with him before.

"I kept my promise," he said, and though he looked at the gnome, he spoke loud enough that others could hear him. "I talked with the one the kobolds had hired to fight."

"I don't understand," one of the gnomes said. "Wasn't the other white-hair supposed to fight for us?"

"He isn't fighting the kobolds," Finsternis said. "And the kobolds aren't going to fight you. Right now, the 'other white-hair' is talking to the kobolds, telling them that you won't destroy them."

The gnome girl stepped forward, looked at him shyly. "We fight them?" She looked at the ferocious kobolds. "Why we fight them? We no want fight. We want live here. Make things."

Finsternis thought of something. It might not work, but maybe, if the gnomes wanted to cooperate… "Do you have anything you could give them? A peace offering, to show them you truly do not wish to fight?"

The gnomes looked at him, looked at the kobolds standing between them and the exit of the caves, at Geralt who was talking with them. Then they began to talk amongst themselves, conferred in the rapid gnome language.

It was the girl who turned back. "Have decided yes," she said. "Will get gift. Wait a bit."

He waited. After a while, there was commotion in the back. An object was carried from gnome to gnome, until it ended up with the girl. She held it up for inspection. "Is gift. Think kobolds like?"

Finsternis stared. It was a sword, but it was unlike one he'd ever seen before. Slender, light, but long. The weak light played along its edge, showing it was straight and true. The metal was of an alloy he couldn't identify and the hilt was intricately decorated and inlayed with a filigree of gold. This wasn't a normal weapon. This was a masterpiece.

"I think they'll like," he said slowly. "Come with me, if you please."

She held the sword in both hands, on a piece of cloth which looked like satin. The scabbard was placed next to it. Together, the girl and Finsternis walked back to where he had stood together with Geralt.

Thank the stars, the witcher had overheard him and picked up on it. He started to walk at the same time, a kobold – their leader? – at his side. They ended up facing each other in the middle.

The gnome presented the sword, lifted it up as high as she could. "On behalf of the gnomes of Tir Tochair, I present to you the sword Fayellen, so that it may cement the bond of friendship between our races."

The kobold reached for the sword. He waited a moment before he took it and tension rose. Would he accept the weapon as given, or would this be the time where he snatched the sword and used it to stab the gnome? Or the mage? Finsternis had the feeling the kobold was well aware of the drama he was creating.

He took the sword and lifted it above his head. At his touch, the blade flashed to life, burned with an inner fire. The bright light lit up the cave, illuminated the faces of gnomes, kobolds, and the two men standing between them. A surprised "Ooohh…" like a breath rose up around them.

The kobold – in the light, Finsternis recognised him as the one they had spared on the mountain – spoke. "In the interest of the friendship between our races, and to ensure that the sword Fayellen may strengthen this bond instead of sever it, I present to you with this simple token of our gratitude." He handed the girl a good-sized gold nugget. "May you craft beautiful things with this." He bowed, lowered the weapon upon the satin cloth and stepped back with it.

The gnome accepted the nugget, bowed back and retreated likewise. It was over.


	7. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Finsternis travel back to Birgingen, where they meet Jaskier and Yennefer. Some questions remain unanswered... or maybe not.

It was over, apart from the wrapping up. The kobolds retreated to wherever it was they came from, satisfied that the gnomes did not have a secret weapon and they would not come to destroy them. After a last talk with their leader, Geralt stayed behind for awhile.

The gnomes flowed back into the caves. Finsternis said softly to the girl: "I thought you didn't use magic?"

"We don't," she said, puzzled.

"Then how did the sword light up when the kobold touched it?"

She smiled. "Sword glows when touched by kobold, is trick we built in. We thought they would like, nice, shiny. Was attempt at early warning system, kinda failed. Was supposed to glow when kobold would be near, not when touch."

Finsternis began to smile as well when realisation dawned. "So the sword was a failed experiment?"

"Yes. Is pretty but not suited for purpose of detecting kobolds. Thought would make good gift."

"It's a great gift. Which reminds me." He gingerly sat down on a stool several sizes too small for him. "I think you'll want this back." He began to take off the brace.

The girl looked at him. With him sitting down and her standing, their faces were at the same height. "You no want?" she said softly.

"Oh, I very much do want," Finsternis said. "But… it's a great gift. Too precious."

She rested her small hand on his, stopped him from undoing the brace any further. "I made for *you*," she said emphatically. "Not for you to do one job, then stop. Besides… you kept promise, yes, very much. No killing. That worth more than swords or brace. Thank you." She gave him a sudden, fierce hug.

Finsternis had to restrain himself from stiffening. He wasn't used to public displays of affection, let alone being hugged. He awkwardly patted her on the back. "You're welcome."

She stepped back, blushing so fiercely that he could see it clearly, even in the weak light. But she kept smiling. "Now you always carry gnomes of Tir Tochair with you."

"And one in particular, a wise gnome and handy crafter," Finsternis replied. "You know, I don't even know your name?"

"I is Gloriana," the girl said proudly. "Gloriana Annafin of Tir Tochair."

"Then thank you, Gloriana Annafin of Tir Tochair, for everything you have done to me," Finsternis said gravely. "As soon as my companion is done here, it is time for me to leave."

Gloriana looked sad, but nodded. "I know. You go, you travel. Travel outside, under sun, under stars. I stay here. Outside big. Some gnomes like go outside, travel, go to Birgingen or other places. I no go. I stay here, make things."

While they were talking, Finsternis had been trying to think of something to give to the girl in return. Not in exchange for the brace, but as a token of his own gratitude towards her. They had taken him in, and she had cared for him. And as she spoke about crafting, he suddenly remembered something.

"I have something…" he said, slowly. "I found it, but I think it wanted me to. I would like to give it to you now. It might… I don't know, maybe open up more worlds to you. Or give you wondrous dreams. But I feel that it belongs here, with you." He reached into the small bag on his belt and took out the pearl. "It's called the Pearl of Worlds, or Pearl of Dreams. It's very old. Maybe you can unlock its secret." He held out his hand. The small pearl glowed a pale red.

She took it, and in her hands the pearl began to grow until it was the size it had been when Finsternis first saw it. "Is great gift," she whispered, her voice filled with awe. "Will do best to be worthy of such a gift."

It cost him no effort to smile. "You already are."

"Ready to leave?" Geralt came walking with great strides, the sword on his back nearly brushing the ceiling.

Finsternis stood waiting near the exit – or one of them, most likely. Gloriana had led him here and said her farewells. In the time that he waited, Finsternis had taken the bandage off. The small wound on his head was closed, he would attend to the rest later. "Yes. You've done what you came to do?"

"Yes." The witcher grinned. "This was a first – getting paid for not killing. By both sides."

"Hm," Finsternis said, in his most passable Witcher-imitation.

"You sure you don't want your share of the money?" Geralt asked. He continued to walk through the narrow passage. Pale morning light painted the walls.

"Quite sure. I'll be leaving soon enough. There's just one thing that bothers me, and I hate loose ends."

"Marthia," Geralt said, as he'd done before.

"Yes. I wonder if Jaskier found out more about her."

"I suggest we go look for him in Birgingen. Maybe we'll find more answers there."

"Sounds good to me." Finsternis hoped they would be able to find the horses. Brace or not, a walk back to the city would be a drama. Already he had to pause more often than he liked.

They rounded a corner and, just like that, stepped out into the light. The early morning sun made Finsternis' eyes water and let the fireworks go off again in his head. He groaned and stepped back.

Geralt turned. "Something wrong?"

"I… the light…"

"Yeah, it really hits you after a time in the dark, doesn't it?" the witcher said. "Just take it easy. Oh, look. They actually brought the horses."

Finsternis slowly opened his eyes again. Indeed, there were Geralt's horse and his, standing side by side, saddled and all. "Well, that's a relief," he sighed.

"Need a hand getting up?" Geralt asked.

Finsternis gritted his teeth. This was not a time for misplaced pride. "Thank you, yes."

The ride back to Birgingen was relatively quick. The path was clear from where they emerged from the gnome cave system, and the low hills spread out below them. Birgingen was a small cluster in the middle.

Still, for Finsternis the ride seemed to take forever. He hadn't been able to heal the concussion yet. The sunlight stung his eyes, the horse's movement made him dizzy and nauseous, and it was all he could do to clung to the reigns and keep himself from falling. But he didn't call for a halt, didn't complain. He just wanted to reach the city as soon as possible.

If the witcher noticed – and Finsternis was certain he did – he didn't comment. They kept riding, didn't even pause for lunch. Geralt nibbled on one of the dried sausages. Finsternis wasn't hungry at all.

At last they reached the city walls, once again shortly before sundown. The guards waved them on. "We've been notified of your coming."

Finsternis managed to raise an eyebrow. "Jaskier?"

Geralt shrugged. "Probably. Let's go find Wilford's house."

The streets had been cleared of most of the rubble in the few days since they'd been here. There was still a lot of damage, but at least the main streets were passable again. The square where the priest had been ranting was virtually empty now. There were no more red strands or knots, no sign of any magic.

It didn't take them long to reach Wilford's house. It looked deserted.

"Jaskier!" Geralt bellowed. Finsternis winced at the sound and muttered variations on the theme of 'Ow'. Nothing happened.

"Jaskier!!"

The door opened, but the person in the opening, smiling up at them, was not Jaskier. It was a woman Finsternis hadn't seen before, though she looked oddly familiar. "Hello, Geralt. Sorry to disappoint you, Jaskier isn't here." Her voice was warm and playful.

"Yennefer?" Geralt jumped down and grabbed her by the shoulders, as if to confirm to himself that she was really there. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you, obviously." Her smile was impish. "And as for you, mage, I told you to come find me. Now look what a sorry mess you are."

"Were you behind this?" Geralt demanded. "Where's Marthia? Or Wilford, for that matter? And where's Jaskier!"

"I would really appreciate it if people stopped shouting," Finsternis mumbled. He supposed he would have to dismount, but that seemed like a tremendous effort with a lousy payoff. Maybe he could just sleep here in the saddle. If people stopped shouting long enough.

"Oh, for- Geralt, help him down," Yennefer ordered. "Couldn't you have given him one of your potions?"

"I doubt any of my potions would have the desired effect on him," Geralt replied. "Maybe you have something that can help him." He lifted Finsternis off the horse and helped him inside.

"I might." Yennefer rummaged in a bag as Geralt put the mage down on a chair. Finsternis was just barely aware of his surroundings by now, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep. But Yennefer pressed something against his lips. "Drink."

Finsternis peered up at her. It was too light in here, but that was not the odd thing. "You're awfully tall f'r a gnome," he mumbled.

"What?" Yennefer looked startled. Geralt just barked a laugh. Yennefer kept pressing the small bottle to Finsternis' lips and gave a sharp jerk on his long hair with her other hand. "C'mon, drink!"

"Aah!" The mage's eyes flew open.

Yennefer used the man's startled cry to force the potion in his mouth and closed it. "Swallow."

Finsternis did. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice. The liquid burned all the way down, but it did revive him. At the same time, it dulled the pain. Yennefer looked at him critically, hands akimbo. "Better?"

"Much. Thank you." He looked around. "Hey… this is Wilford's house. Any sign of him, or of Marthia?"

"Nope," a cheerful voice behind them said. Jaskier entered, arms full with a large wrapped package. He kicked the door closed behind him and set the package on the table. "Food and drink. Hi Geralt, good to see you. Finsternis, where did you head off to? I thought you'd be able to answer that question. They weren't here and I haven't seen them since."

Some actual food and a few diluted glasses of wine did a lot to restore Finsternis to something resembling himself, after Yennefer's potion. Meanwhile, Geralt filled Jaskier in on what he'd missed by going down to Birgingen.

"So something was setting up the gnomes and the kobolds to fight," Jaskier said slowly, sipping his wine. "Do you think they were using Wilford and Marthia, and now abducted them? Or do you think they orchestrated it all? I've asked around for a bit, and you know, they did live here. But they moved in only a few weeks ago. Before then, nobody I spoke with recalled ever having seen them before. But they settled in really quickly. If people thought about it at all, they assumed they came from another village and settled here for some reason. Nobody thought anything weird about it, but it does make you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Is it possible to disguise someone's appearance, or change it altogether, using magic?" Finsternis asked.

Yennefer laughed. "You're really not from around here, are you?"

"No," Finsternis replied, somewhat befuddled.

"Obviously." Yennefer smiled. "If you had been, you'd know. Yes, it is quite possible indeed."

Something clicked in Finsternis' mind, things he'd subconsciously noted suddenly connected. "It happened with you."

"And with many like me. It is a tradition amongst sorceresses, amongst others."

"Ah. Somehow, though, I doubt this served the same purpose," Finsternis replied. "Indeed, the whole idea seemed to have been to mask them, not to enhance."

"To mask as human?" Yennefer said. "What do you think they were, then?"

"I don't know."

"Yennefer, you still haven't explained what you were doing here," Geralt said sternly.

"Always with your questions!" Yennefer's violet eyes flashed. "If you must know, I came to admire my handiwork. Imagine my surprise when I heard that shortly before I arrived, not one but two white-haired men had been here. Of course, I had to stay here for a while to see if you would return. After all, wouldn't want to miss you, hey?" She smiled at Geralt, a smile which would have reduced Jaskier to a puddle if it had been aimed at him.

"So you admit to sending the storm here?" Jaskier asked with eyes like saucers.

"Pah!" Yennefer waved with one hand. "That priest was an obnoxious oaf. He had the gall to send- Oh, never mind that. Yes. I had a little play-thing that needed testing and his temple was the perfect target. Unfortunately, storms do cause a lot of collateral damage. In all fairness, I did warn you to come look for me, not press on ahead. Looks like my message ended up with the wrong person, though." She sent a similarly thrilling smile to Finsternis, who just gave a polite nod back.

"Hm," Geralt grunted. "So, just to be clear, you had nothing to do with… all this what we've been involved in?"

"Really, Geralt," Yennefer chided. "I was waiting in the Mountainhead Inn when all of the sudden Jaskier came in, talking to people and singing. That's when I heard what you were doing here. I decided to come with him to wait for either you to return or the owners of this place, in the hope that they could give some answers. Well, you returned first."

"Just one detail, though," Finsternis said. He had recovered enough for now to accept a glass of undiluted wine and took a careful sip. "First you said you only heard that we were here after you entered Birgingen. Then you said you send a warning before we came here – a warning intended for Geralt, I take it."

Yennefer fixed Finsternis with her purple stare. "You are perceptive, mage. Yes, I did hear about you earlier. In another inn, where the innkeeper couldn't stop talking about two witchers with white hair who'd been there earlier. So I had the feeling something odd was going on. The only white-hair I knew sits over there." She gave Geralt a quick wave and a smile. "I must admit my curiosity was piqued. I had no idea you were going to Birgingen, though. My warning was more courtesy, just in case you did decide to go there."

"So what was that 'come find me' about once we did come here?" Finsternis pressed.

"As I said, Geralt is the only white-hair I know. When you stared back at me during the storm, I figured you weren't a witcher, as the innkeeper thought. You interested me. Still do. All the more after Jaskier told me you claim not to be of this world."

"Yes, you interest me too," Finsternis said, matter-of-factly. "What interests me more, though, is who or what Marthia and Wilford were. Who would benefit by having gnomes and kobolds fight with each other in the mountains?

"Someone who is interested in goblin craftsmanship, such as weapons, without having to pay for it?" Jaskier suggested.

"Or another party who wants to move in," Geralt said. "It could be anyone. Until we find either Wilford or Marthia, we'll never know."

"I hate loose ends," Finsternis muttered.

"Me too," Jaskier commented. "It makes for a lousy story."

Geralt rose and stretched. "I suppose we could try to trace them. But if they can really mask their appearance, and if they're capable enough with magic to lay a trap for the unwary, that's going to make it a lot harder. As for me, I'm not as curious as the rest of you. If I ever should encounter them again, I'll be certain to ask them some questions. Until then, the Continent is a big place, and there's always work for a witcher."

Yennefer rose as well and stroked Geralt's chin. "That may be, but sometimes even witchers need to rest. I happen to know the bed here is very comfortable, and big enough for two. Coming?"

Geralt gave a surprisingly elegant bow. "As my lady desires."

Alone in his own – improvised – bed later, Finsternis reflected that it seemed there wasn't much more to do for him. It would be nice to stay for awhile and talk shop with Yennefer, compare their different ways of performing magic and maybe exchange a thing or two. It might be nice to teach Jaskier a few more stories and learn a few more himself.

But ultimately, the thing he had been hired to do had been done. And this wasn't his world. He was a mere visitor here, but the longer he remained, the greater the chance was that he'd meddle into something he had no business with, and it would fall to others to control the damage.

Yes, one more night here, then it was time to leave.

He closed his eyes and slept.

And dreamed. It was that strange semi-dream where he heard voices talking: the woman and the man.

"So, here we are again." The woman spoke.

"A world rife with magic, with other races, with sorcerers, priests and witchers," the man said. "What do you think?"

"It is interesting. Maybe this is what my world could have been if our gods had trusted more and controlled less," Finsternis replied.

"So you blame your gods for your world's shortcomings?" the woman said. Her voice sounded amused.

Finsternis raised a disembodied eyebrow. He had the feeling that these beings, whoever they were, would still be able to perceive it. "I did not say my world was shortcoming, compared to yours. It is merely different. All worlds are different, even the ones who superficially have a lot in common."

"And what do you think about all the prejudices, the misunderstandings?" the man asked. "The kobolds almost killed you because they thought you'd come for them."

"Fortunately, we were able to dissuade them from that notion." Finsternis replied. "I regret that one of them got killed. However, there will always be people who misunderstand each other. That is why it is important to communicate first. Violence is a last resort."

"So you're a diplomat at heart. But what about those things that are being said about witchers and magic users?" the woman asked. "They have no emotions, they have no soul?"

"If you're speaking of my soul, I do not know," Finsternis said. "Where I come from, we don't overly concern ourselves with it. As for emotions, I know I have plenty. However, part of my training is to learn to control them, instead of letting emotions control you. I imagine it's an even more integral part of witcher training. I know for certain Geralt has emotions, even though he rarely shows them. As to the state of his soul, I couldn't guess. But I believe he has as much of a soul as anyone I have encountered."

"Even Wilford?" the man asked, and for a moment his voice changed. It became older, with a slight tremor which hadn't been there before. "He who argued about the lack of one in the witcher and yourself?"

"So it was you!" Finsternis said, startled. "Then you must've been Marthia."

Though he still saw neither the man or the woman, he had the impression that somewhere, she smiled.

"But you have never told me who you are. Or where…"

"Some things, dear mage, should remain a mystery." Yes, there was no doubt her voice was smiling. "Sleep well, mage. And carry the memory of this world with you when you leave. Should you choose to return, you are welcome."

And with that, the voices fell silent for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Finsternis Zwartén is the main character of a series I'm working on. He is a mage who uses the construct of the In-Between, the space between worlds, to visit various worlds. 
> 
> As soon as there is more information about him available, it'll be posted here.


End file.
